All Must Lose Their Way
by Allegra
Summary: CHAPTER 19 up! Divided they fall. When Arthur's company are given new orders, his decisions could be the death of those dearest to him.
1. The Mission

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY  
  
A 'King Arthur' tale  
  
By Allegra  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They are copyright of various original medieval authors as well as Touchstone & anyone else with financial claim on their swashbuckling selves. Please don't sue!  
  
CHAPTER 1:THE MISSION  
  
Dark clouds shrouded the sun as the first drops of rain dampened the barely dried mud at the horses' feet. Lancelot grimaced, turning narrowed eyes to the heavens. He and Gawain had been trudging through this quagmire for the better part of two days, on Arthur's orders. Saxons had been tracked to the expansive forests of the Sudergeona, Southern Britain, as named by the scourge themselves. The area had held little importance for Rome in comparison to the war being waged hundreds of miles north at Hadrian's Wall. A few estates littered the usually mild countryside but the only feature of note was the extensive Stane Street, stretching from Chichester to London and down to the coast. As the main trading route into the rainy island, when Saxons began moving towards the surrounding woodland areas, Rome turned its eye upon them.  
  
Unfortunately for Artorius Castus, that entailed sending his own knights to defend the road. While they all perfected the vision of warrior thirst for blood, not one among the group felt comfortable about taking on such a mission. They had encountered plenty of Saxons in their time, but never before had these bloodthirsty brutes had such a reason to defend their ground. Intercepting food, clothes, gold and all manner of goods entering Britain from Europe would ensure a comfortable life as well as the upper hand in all bargaining.  
  
Lancelot grimly recalled the day of their issue. Arthur had called all his knights to assembly and, accustomed to being pushed around the country, none had thought it anything exceptional until the scroll had been opened.  
  
"Surely we are not expected to go alone. So few against so many. It is madness…suicide," Galahad declared, his voice betraying his shock. Gawain looked silently to his friend. He knew he was not the only man thinking the same.  
  
Bors chided, "Afraid of a fight, Galahad? You are becoming feeble in your age."  
  
Being the youngest of the knights, Galahad barely managed a smile at the jibe but Gawain jumped to his defence. "He is no coward, Bors, simply a man of sense."  
  
Lancelot, who had drunk much wine before the assembly, was still digesting the news. He did not look up from the empty goblet in front of him. He was torn, as always, between his loyalty to Arthur and his hatred of everything Rome represented. To defy the order was to defy his leader, his friend, but to take it was, indeed, suicide.  
  
Tristan kept his head, refusing to join in the heated discussion rising between his companions. Turning directly to Arthur, he asked, "Galahad has made a good point. Why has Rome not issued us with reinforcements? An army at our back?"  
  
Arthur swallowed, dryly. So many times he had stood at this table, sending those closest to him into unenviable odds against a foe. If it were not the daily dealings of his life, he would think it some devilish nightmare, forcing him to make impossible choices where devastating loss was the inevitable outcome. "They are hoping our reputations will precede us, that the Saxons will retreat without a fight."  
  
Finally, Lancelot spoke, letting out a disgusted expulsion of breath. "Huh, and in what world would people with so much to lose choose to turn their backs on us? We are but seven and they have overrun the countryside. They have raped and pillaged, spilt the blood of both warriors and innocents alike! It is a fool's mission. Surely Rome must see that."  
  
Arthur was already weary. Lately his knights seemed to have found something to hate about every mission given to them. "They do see that, Lancelot. Yet still they believe that our names alone will have impact. We cannot spare men from the Wall and the Saxons should not be led to believe that their doings are of consequence to us. If we send an army, they will know the threat we perceive them to be. They'll know we are afraid. So far, none of the surrounding villages have been harmed and sightings of the Saxon leader have been unclear."  
  
"As much as I would like to believe we are fearsome enough to drain the blood from a Saxon warrior's face, I doubt our presence will deter them from their course," Lancelot replied, resignation already tainting his voice. It barely mattered what the argument was or how sane it might be, Rome would have her way. What did she care for Sarmation blood spilt across the Channel?  
  
Arthur's sturdy voice had calmed the room and he reasoned with his men, as much as he hated having to go against his own mind. "We must attain some knowledge of the situation. If it is beyond our control, we will send for reinforcements from the Wall, but not until. For all we know the Saxons might simply be hiding out in the forests, planning a more elaborate scheme or just avoiding confrontation. We would look more foolish marching a small army down to the South, only to discover little more than peasant men and children." The silence which followed was affirmation enough. "So we leave tomorrow, at dawn."  
  
"Dawn? You mean night? The sun never reaches the earth in this cursed place," Bors muttered, angrily.  
  
"See how the tender flower pines for the light," Tristan laughed, receiving a flashing glare from his friend.  
  
"I simply ask for some indication of night giving way to day!" With that, Bors drained his wine and stormed from the room. To anyone else, such a show could easily be construed as fierce anger at going to battle. However, to the group of knights still assembled, it was a good-natured grumble which would no doubt lead him directly to more merry alcohol.

* * *

So, the small band of men had set out from the snaking stone edifice of Hadrian's Wall, following the worn paths leading down to the south. It was over a week's hard ride and when they finally reached the Southern region, Arthur parted company, splitting the knights into pairs. "We will ride around the forest and meet on the other side. Do not enter into a skirmish unless you are given no choice. We are at the disadvantage. Who knows how many archers might be hidden in the branches."  
  
Arthur glanced towards the darkening tree line. He had always hated woodland. It was no good for fighting, limiting one's sword reach which was constantly in danger of being caught on tree boughs. Worse still, the foliage made it harder to see your way forward, unless you had the keen eyes of Tristan's hawk. That was before one encountered the Woads who made their homes in such places and rigged every clear path with traps. No, this was not going to be a pleasant ride.  
  
"Lancelot and Gawain, you take the Eastern side. Galahad, Dagonet and Tristan, you take the West."  
  
Lancelot, ever ready to be in the thick of things, knew Arthur would take the most treacherous path and, since they were not paired, he felt hard done by. "And where will you be?"  
  
"Bors and I will take the path through the woods." Arthur fixed his friend with a firm stare. He knew only too well what Lancelot was thinking, as did the others. "Those are my orders. Tonight we will make camp here, then set out in the morning."  
  
Lancelot clenched his jaw. It angered him that Arthur tried to protect him. Entering the forest and carving a path through untamed undergrowth was treacherous at the best of times but worse when one needed an extra pair of eyes trained on an unseen enemy. Even if Woads or Saxons did not bar the path, desperate thieves could take advantage of a knight's ineptitude under such conditions.  
  
Barely concealing his sulkiness, Lancelot ate his dinner in silence at the campfire before turning his back on his comrades in favour of sleep. When he awoke in the last shadows of the moon, Arthur and Bors were gone.

* * *

Gawain had given up trying to talk to his friend after the first day. If Lancelot was going to sulk like a child all the way around the forest perimeter, he certainly was not going to indulge it. Instead, he focused on watching the sway of the leaves in the wind, the small alterations in the direction of the slicing rain. It was hardly the most pleasurable of rides but it passed the time. How they were expected to find any Saxons by plodding round the edge of the forest, he didn't know. After all, Gawain could only see the first few lines of trees before darkness enfolded the wood and nothing was visible at all.  
  
Now, two days on and without so much as a suspect rustle in the branches, Gawain was beginning to see Lancelot's point of view about it being boring. Their orders were ridiculous, like sending the best knights for a breath of fresh air while others fell on Saxon swords elsewhere in the realm. Boredom also gave Gawain more time, perhaps too much, to contemplate Galahad's route round the other side of the forest. While he knew his close friend was no novice on the battlefield, he couldn't help fearing that, while peace reigned on this side of the forest, all the action and danger might be occurring on the opposite side.  
  
"Doesn't this damned forest ever end?" Lancelot muttered, the second time he had spoken all morning. He turned an irritated glance towards Gawain. His hair was soaked with rain and his freezing fingers were so cold, he could barely feel the reins beneath them. Gawain grunted in return, Lancelot's bad mood genuinely starting to rub off on him. Ignoring his friend's silence, Lancelot fumed, "To my reckoning, this is the worst mission we have ever been given."  
  
"You are forgetting the time we were sent to starve out a den of thieves and murderers only to discover frightened children hiding in caves. That was a fairly embarrassing tale to tell when we returned." Gawain remembered only too well the laughter which had met his recount of that event. But, just like the others, he was little more than a pawn for whatever scheme Rome devised. It was not their fault nor was it their decision.  
  
Lancelot ran a cold hand through his wet hair. "Ah yes. I had all but put that little expedition out of my mind completely. Thank you so much for returning the memory to me," he said, sarcastically.  
  
"My pleasure. I thought it might add to your good mood today," Gawain jested.  
  
Lancelot ignored the last remark, reining in his horse instead. Gawain pulled his mare alongside and followed his fellow knight's gaze towards the tree line. "What do you see?"  
  
"Nothing, just like yesterday and the day before that." Yet, Lancelot's eyes remained fixed on a pathway opened up by fallen tree trunks.  
  
Gawain had spent enough years in the man's company to see when Lancelot was hatching a plan and he sighed, wearily. "But why do I get the feeling this day will not end like yesterday or the day before that? Arthur gave us his orders. We are duty bound to follow them." As he was so wont to do, Lancelot chose to blank out his friend's comment and kicked his horse, steering him towards the gap in the trees. "Lancelot!" The knight's back remained to him as he spurred the horse closer to the forest. Cursing under his breath, Gawain followed suit. No matter what Arthur's orders might have been, he could not leave Lancelot alone. He would only court trouble.

* * *

Meanwhile, Arthur and Bors were deep in the undergrowth, their arms torn to shreds by brambles which caught in their clothes and clung there, jabbing sharp needles into their legs and bodies. It was an unpleasant trip to say the least and Arthur was already regretting bringing along his burliest knight. Bors was making more fuss than one of his mewling infants waiting for milk. Arthur had full knowledge of every bramble his comrade touched and it was starting to grate on the leader's nerves. Perhaps he had been wrong to send Lancelot away from him. He knew his closest friend did not understand his reasoning and he wished he had explained but it was too difficult with the other knights present. It was simply that Arthur knew Lancelot's mind better than any other's. If anything befell a party, he instinctively knew what Lancelot would do. It was comforting to know that they shared such a mutual telepathy.  
  
Yet, still Arthur knew he lied even to himself. He wanted to keep Lancelot safe. He was well aware that he trod the more dangerous path and wished to spare those dearest to him from the perils should they arise. Bors was a strong brute, the oldest of his knights and hardly one to be left on the outside of the fray. Hopefully, the threat hidden in the dark foliage would be benign or well contained at best.  
  
"Is there anything of merit in this Godforsaken country?!" Bors seethed. "This isle is indeed the Devil's arse."  
  
"And you yet may make it your grave if you continue with this whining, my friend. If these woods have eyes then they surely have ears as well," Arthur chided. At this, Bors was quiet for a few more paces before the next thorn scratched his cheek.

* * *

A very different tone permeated the Western group. In spite of the grim weather and the long, dull ride, Dagonet, Galahad and Tristan were in fine spirit. They had taken great pleasure in regaling one another with tales of home and tender moments with loved ones left behind there. Tristan would send out his hawk and it would return, sometimes with a mouse in its beak or sometimes just to rest on his owner's shoulder. The few rays of sunlight which had managed to penetrate the interminable cloud layer were waning and, when even the horses stumbled in the failing light, the knights decided to make camp.  
  
"At least there is no shortage of firewood," Dagonet noted.  
  
"Is that wise? After all, we are supposed to be watching, keeping a low profile. Perhaps we should go without tonight." Galahad was ever the cautious one but this had put him in good stead so far. He thought first, acted second, a rare characteristic amongst his comrades, but one which was respected all the same. On more than one occasion, the young man's suggestions had kept the knights from fights they were happy to avoid.  
  
"You do not think they have been watching us all this while?" Dagonet replied.  
  
Galahad opened his mouth to deny it but was outspoken by Tristan. "Oh, they see us. I can feel their eyes upon us even now. A fire is of little consequence." The older man's dark eyes caught the final wintry glow of sunlight, giving him a strangely ethereal look. Tristan had always been somewhat distant from the other knights, not in body but in spirit. He had a connection with the earth which made even the most straightforward of men listen. There was a wisdom beyond his years, a strength of spirit which was both unerringly accurate as well as unnerving.  
  
"Well, I for one am glad of it," Galahad said, chirpily. "It is too damn cold to lie on this damp grass without the warmth of a good fire."  
  
"Do not speak too hastily, my friend. We have yet to find a twig dry enough to put a spark to," Dagonet sighed. He still harboured some good nature but his humour was wearing thin now that night was closing in. With only three of them, the nocturnal watches would be longer and fatigue was already claiming his limbs. Dropping down from his horse, he began searching for kindle.

* * *

"Damn you, Lancelot! It's getting too dark to play these heroics. We should stick to the route we have been given," Gawain reproached his companion, breathing another expletive when Lancelot let a branch swing back directly onto his face.  
  
"What route?! If I recall correctly, Arthur's exact instructions were 'Lancelot and Gawain, you take the Eastern side'. He said nothing of whether that be outside the Eastern side of the woods or within the Eastern side." Lancelot spoke with determination in his voice but Gawain detected the newfound joy in the man's voice.  
  
"You're enjoying this, aren't you? You can twist his words all you like but you know very well what Arthur intended us to do."  
  
"Well, you didn't have to follow me. Go back by all means but I, for one, would like to achieve something on this mission. If there are people hiding in these woods, it's no good us hovering around outside them. That only makes us look afraid which, I believe, was exactly the reason we were sent – to show fearlessness." Lancelot sounded more like he was giving a speech to the masses than venting a lot of hot air at someone who knew him too well to be taken in.  
  
"That's a rousing speech, Lancelot, but it doesn't call the sun into the sky. Whichever way you look at it, it is too dark to go hunting Saxons. We should go back and make camp." When Lancelot ploughed on ahead, through the tangle of tree roots and shrubbery, Gawain was not surprised. It was just another typical pig-headed act of bravado and too much inertia. Lancelot was spoiling for a fight but, more than that, he wanted to prove something, not to Gawain but to their leader. It was for Arthur that the knight plunged into the murky depths of the treacherous unknown. In any other circumstance, Gawain would try to reason with his friend for longer but, where the great Roman leader was concerned, arguing was futile. Biting his tongue against the torrent of words whirling in his brain, Gawain dutifully followed Lancelot.  
  
They had not gone more than fifty yards or so before the sound of cracking twigs and shaking leaves could be heard ahead of them. Both men pulled their horses up hard and they peered into the gathering gloom. "Did you hear that?" Lancelot whispered.  
  
"Of course I heard it," Gawain retorted. "It came from over there." He pointed with his sword into a patch of particularly dense thicket to the right of them.  
  
"No, you're mistaken. It came from straight ahead of us," Lancelot challenged.  
  
"Why must it be me who is mistaken? Perhaps it is you who are losing your hearing," Gawain snapped back.  
  
"I'm not going deaf! It came from over there!" Lancelot nearly shouted, catching himself at the last and managing to reduce the final exclamation to a hoarse whisper. No sooner had their bickering got underway than a second rustle could be heard.  
  
"What are the chances that we are both right?" Gawain whispered, uncertainly. The trees were alive now, the rustling fierce and purposeful. Whoever hid amongst them wanted to be known. Gawain moved his hand to rest on the pommel of his axe, ready to swing into action at the first sign of movement. He saw Lancelot's hand creep to the dagger he kept in his boot.  
  
Ahead of Gawain, Lancelot's eyes were growing more accustomed to the blackness around him and, just as he prepared to call the cowards into the open, a bearded face emerged, eyes hollow and pupils large in the night. His yellowing teeth flashed in the weak moonlight as scores of men surrounded the two knights.  
  
END OF CHAPTER 1  
  
Now, pretty please hit that little button down there on the left! It would make my day but possibly put our knights in more danger. Continue at their peril!! 


	2. Gathering Gloom

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra  
  
See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the long delay in an update. I had some heavy things going on at school. Suffice to say, I'm back in action now. So on with the hurting, sorry, I mean show. I know this chapter is very short but I promise I'll post some more soon. I figured little & often might be the way to go for now.  
  
PART 2 : GATHERING GLOOM  
  
Lancelot and Gawain were surrounded. In the gloom, it was difficult to tell whether they were grossly outnumbered by Saxons or Woads. The two knights had barely managed to reach for their weapons upon attack and now they were forced to relinquish them. Lancelot opened his hands in surrender, the gesture doubling as a way of warding off the circle of men closing in around him and Gawain.  
  
"Knights? Have you lost your way? You're Roman roads are so straight, it would take a fool to err!" The group around him laughed, but the man's accent was rolling and soft, making the words almost unintelligible to Lancelot.  
  
Gawain tried to gain his friend's attention but failed miserably. Lancelot's back was turned to him and there was no opportunity for eye contact. Out of the band of Arthur's knights, neither Gawain nor Lancelot could truly be considered the hot heads. While the former watched out for the younger Galahad, Lancelot's unguarded reactions were tempered by his loyalty to Arthur. Their leader's solid calmness often required a more animated medium to get the message across to his men. That medium was Lancelot. As soon as Arthur was out of sight, it was Lancelot who brought the sceptical ones around. Nonetheless, the knight's fuse was short and, unchecked, he could be angry and reckless. Now was one of those dangerous moments.  
  
Outnumbered, disarmed, and suddenly the object of ridicule, Gawain feared Lancelot was riding dangerously close to his limit. It was clear now that these men were indeed Saxons and they were more bloodthirsty than Woads. Gawain closed his eyes in regret when he heard Lancelot's next words, uttered in a frosty tone. "And since we are not fools, you can rest assured that we are exactly where we wanted to be."  
  
The lead Saxon laughed mirthlessly. "Completely disadvantaged? An enviable position indeed," he jibed.  
  
"That depends on the nobility of one's opponent," Lancelot threatened in a low tone.  
  
The man's brow furrowed in confusion. "How so?"  
  
Lancelot did not miss a beat. "Well, only a coward would fight two unarmed men with twenty at his back." Gawain inhaled sharply. He could see the confused faces around them gradually turning to unadulterated malice. Lancelot was either mad or a fool to take these rogues on. Unfortunately, the knight knew only too well which category his friend fell into. If he hadn't been forced to give up his most accessible weapon, Gawain would have drawn it when he witnessed what happened next.  
  
The Saxon's lip curled into a bestial snarl and his eyes hardened into ice. "You would dare to call me a coward when I rail against your cursed smothering race, trying to claim what we have just as much right to?! You Romans came and invaded many years ago, yoked and tethered these people, looking down upon them, but you think yourselves above such treatment. We will claim this land as our own and bathe the earth in your damned Roman blood."  
  
Lancelot's jaw quivered with barely contained rage, his own eyes burning with a vengeful fire. If there was one thing the young man could not abide, it was being mistaken for a Roman – all those ridiculous gods, the long arm of Rome stretching across any fertile country she laid eyes upon. Yet, years of duty to the Italian cause had brought with it care, a certain respect and perhaps even love for one Roman at least. Lancelot was on this mission for him, in these woods for him, and now he would fight for him – for Arthur.  
  
Completely vulnerable and unarmed, Lancelot prayed that Gawain felt the same way as he took a breathtaking blow to the stomach for his leader, followed by an acutely painful lashing to the head. Both knights bravely held their ground, secretly praying that their friends would ride to the rescue soon enough. Their dignity might not like it but their lives might depend on it.

* * *

Arthur shifted once more as the knobbly knots of his chosen tree dug into his spine. He cursed himself for not choosing their resting spot more carefully. On the other hand, he was on first watch, and the constant discomfort helped to keep him awake at least. Bors had his back to Arthur but snores were clearly audible, even as the gathering wind caught the branches. The Roman had taken to booting his companion every once in a while to silence the cacophony but it's effect was short-lived. If no one had heard the older man's incessant curses at the natural hazards of the forest then they surely must have heard him in his sleep. Never before had Arthur so ardently regretted having the burly Bors at his side.  
  
"Be silent, you fool!" he hissed again, kicking the man's backside with unnecessary force. To his surprise, the force still did not wake Bors merely swatted his hand in the general direction of his rear before resuming his rest.  
  
Arthur peered up at the darkening sky and pictured his fellow knights at their rest within a few miles of him. He wondered what they might be thinking of, every man alone with his thoughts. Did they yearn for a homeland they might never see? Did they recall the faces of loved ones or were those already fading in their mind's eye? The time of their duty to Rome was coming to an end. Very soon, all the knights would be free to resume their free lives, to pursue the dreams which had been torn so rudely from them nearly fifteen years ago.  
  
For how long had they all prayed for such a time, when life was not lived with Death's icy hand clutching at their shoulders. Now, the past fifteen years seemed alive with new humour in Arthur's eyes. He found himself almost longing for those early days when the group had years ahead of them. How time had altered them, as one by one they fell to the hands of enemies. Those few who had remained did not dare to believe their gods had chosen them to be spared, yet here they were.  
  
Arthur felt himself torn in two. He wanted to be home, to marry and raise a family. Yet, that was a life he had not even begun. Now was his reality. The snoring Bors, the strong but silent Tristan, the pensive Gawain, the youthful Galahad, the straightforward Dagonet to the brooding Lancelot. No matter how he cared for each one of them, it was the last who held an unprecedented place in the Roman's heart.  
  
Closing his eyes, Arthur felt closer to his comrade. He knew that Lancelot had been angry with him for leaving him behind and Arthur was sorry for it. As he mulled the turn of events over in his head, the commander felt a heaviness in his heart. His mind sensed an intangible danger rising from the darkness of these woods.  
  
His eyes flew open at the sound of a distant cry then a rallying song of pride and victory. Somehow Arthur knew the victory would not be his own as he leapt to his feet and roughly shook Bors awake. "Come on. We must move." Bors, to his credit, did not protest, but gathered his weapons before saddling his horse.  
  
With deep foreboding, Arthur pushed his horse forward into the depths of the forest, drawing ever closer to the sound of beating drums.  
  
END OF PART 2  
  
Please, please review! My creative muse needs lots of wordy nourishment before she'll send me more ideas. 


	3. Capture

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra  
  
See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A massive thank you to all those who have been reviewing so far. You're stars(personal mentions at the bottom)! Any 'Robin Hood : Prince of Thieves' fans might notice the completely shameful plagiarism of one line from the film. Sorry, it just fit really well & kept going round my head until I wrote it down!  
  
PART 3 : CAPTURE  
  
Unlike the other knights, Tristan looked forward to his turn on night watch. It was a time of tranquillity, his chance to be alone with the Earth and all her creatures. He never ceased to marvel at the intricate balance of light and dark, growth and preservation of energy, even life and death. If it were not for his intimacy with Nature's equality, Tristan wondered how he would be able to live through these times. The other knights enjoyed their solitude as well but they did not live their lives in grateful prayer to the goddess for the beauty she supplied. No matter how hostile the land or how dangerous the times, every waking moment was suffused with life. When anvils of thunder clouds gathered overhead, it was the goddess's ever watchful eye and calming hand which kept him sane. Tristan was nothing more than a puppet dancing on the end of her numberless threads. For his actions, there were reactions to temper the world once more. Today, he dealt deaths from his sword blade but tomorrow his death would restore balance once more.  
  
He glanced once more at the beautiful hawk resting at his side. Her beady, golden eye stared out at the horizon, as if her thoughts were melded with his own. Tristan reached out one long, grubby finger to trace the smooth contours of her feathers. The bird's head turned to peck affectionately at the proffered finger. A smile curled Tristan's lips and he settled back against the outcrop of rocks they had taken shelter by and returned to his thoughts.  
  
Only moments later, those thoughts were interrupted by a distant cry. It issued from far across the forest and, as Tristan tuned his ear to the sound, more voices joined them. It was difficult to decipher from such a distance but the cries were numerous. They rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence, like a rally or spectators to the same sport – cheering as one, lamenting as one. A moment later, the sounds were accompanied by the echo of drums. A celebration was in progress and Tristan feared what would give rancorous Saxons cause to celebrate in the woods here.  
  
The knight stood up and roused Galahad who quickly pulled Dagonet to his feet. "Listen," Tristan commanded, firmly. The three stood on the grassy slope, listening to the ominous sounds washing over them. "We need to find Arthur."  
  
"In there?" Galahad asked, incredulously. He wanted to be at his leader's side as much as Tristan but they also needed to think logically about this. "It would be like finding a needle in a haystack."  
  
Dagonet spat at the ground and wiped his hand across his mouth. "Somehow I fear that will not be the case. All our eyes will be turned in the same direction." Grimly, he moved towards his horse and swung up into the saddle as the others did the same.

* * *

Lancelot realised his error in enraging the Saxons only too late. Still, he considered their other options and even Gawain would probably agree that they could not have turned and fled. If they were truly sent down to this corner of the island with the intention of scaring the Saxons back to their boats, turning their backs would have achieved little. That said, getting completely thrashed at the hands of these mercenaries was not exactly top of the list of ways to terrify the rogues either.  
  
Still, for a while the two knights held their ground fairly well. Despite being disarmed, neither Gawain nor Lancelot were foolish enough to leave home with only one set of weapons. Each boot, belt and shirt sleeve harboured yet another steel blade and the pair made ample use of them as Saxons swarmed around them.  
  
The horses were accustomed to battle grounds and stood proudly side by side at first. Gawain tried to steer his mare round to face the opposite direction, so that no one could take them unawares. At this point, the Saxons decided this was not playing fair and they set about frightening the horses. After brandishing torches near their faces and hitting their flanks hard with branches lit with flames, the two horses reared in protest. At first only Lancelot was unseated and landed awkwardly just under his horse's front hooves. The knight was dazed but caught his wits in time to roll out from under the terrified animal.  
  
Instantly, Lancelot was set upon by half a dozen angry Saxons and Gawain moved his horse to defend his friend. Spurred on by their first success in the beast department, several more Saxons dragged on Gawain's legs, eventually forcing him out of the saddle and depositing him on the ground where they proceeded to kick him. "Another fantastic idea, Lancelot," the knight mumbled through gritted teeth as he endeavoured to gain some kind of command over the situation.  
  
Lancelot's dagger had been lost in the brambles when he fell from his horse and it wasn't long before Gawain, too, was relieved of his back up weapons. There were simply too many Saxons to conquer with just two knights. Perhaps on open ground, they might have had an advantage, but not here. The Saxons were clearly accustomed to living and fighting in the undergrowth and the dense foliage did nothing to dampen their spirits nor their ability to throw a punch or two.  
  
"Bring them! Get the horses, too!" the lead Saxon instructed. Quickly, both knights were hauled to their feet. Lancelot's arms were cinched tightly by leather straps behind his back. He winced and bit back a cry of pain as he felt his left shoulder joint popped from it's socket. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes but he tried to breathe steadily through the agonising pain.  
  
Gawain caught his eye as his own arms were bound behind him and their horses were extricated from the thorny brambles blocking their path ahead. Lancelot could read his friend's expression only too well. Gawain accepted their situation with a fair amount of good grace but it was clear he blamed Lancelot for choosing both their fates. The blonde man's jaw was set in a tight, defiant line and his eyes flashed with ferocity aimed partly at his companion as well as their captors.  
  
Lancelot could not help but feel a moment's relief when his friend was pushed ahead of him and he could no longer feel Gawain's angry gaze upon him. He only hoped an escape opportunity would present itself once they were secured at the Saxons' base location. Either that or Arthur came to the rescue. Lancelot resented the image of himself as damsel in distress but neither did he especially enjoy the image of himself gutted on a pole as the crows' dinner. Both were fairly likely outcomes but Lancelot's only concern was which eventuality would play out first. Arthur might find them, but what condition their bodies might be in was another matter entirely.  
  
Responding stubbornly to the blunted spear point prodding in his back, Lancelot moved forward through the woods. Unable to shield his face with his hands, he felt every thorn and branch as they thwacked back in his face behind the burly Saxon ahead of him.

* * *

Arthur and Bors were closing in on the sound of the rabble now and they dismounted their horses, tying them to nearby trees. The Roman leader bent his legs and half-crouched closer to the fray ahead of them. Torches could be seen lighting up the dark spaces of the woods in places and Arthur signalled Bors to stay as low as possible. They could not risk being seen and the flames bouncing off their shiny armour would be enough to give them away. If, indeed, Lancelot and Gawain had secured some of the Saxons, so much the better but Arthur feared it was just as likely that the pair had stumbled into trouble than achieved their aim.  
  
Arthur regretted that he thought so ill of two such accomplished knights. They had survived nigh on fifteen years of hard battle on account of their prowess on the field. Yet, something in Arthur's heart told him there was deadly business afoot and he also knew that Lancelot would still be bitter and hurt at being left on the periphery of action. It would be just his style to try and prove his worth by attempting to round up belligerent Saxons on his own. Gawain would have had no choice but to follow his wayward friend, all the while trying to avoid a half-cocked skirmish.  
  
When Bors and Arthur were close enough to the passing parade of men, they hid in the undergrowth just ahead of the procession. From their mode of dress and the sound of their voices, these were most definitely Saxons. Unfortunately, they were numerous as well. Arthur sent up a silent prayer that they did not have Sarmation prisoners in their midst. Perhaps he had asked too much of God over the past years for his prayer was not answered. The Roman's heart lurched when he saw two figures in armour being shoved unceremoniously through the trees.  
  
Gawain was pushed first, his face thunderous but humbled and he was sporting a nasty gash on his forehead. "Gods, damned fools!" Bors mumbled half to himself as their first friend passed their hiding spot. Fortunately, Gawain did not appear to be badly injured in any way but it was clear from the lengthy procession of men that the knights had been outnumbered. Arthur was relieved that Gawain was relatively unharmed but he trusted the man to approach the situation with a level head anyway. It was Lancelot that the Roman's eyes searched for with alacrity. He knew the younger man too well to imagine he would have accepted defeat with the same grace as Gawain.  
  
Arthur did not have to wait long before he caught sight of his long time friend wedged between two burly Saxon men, one with a spear pointed purposefully at the knight's back. Lancelot's face looked no happier than Gawain's. His dark eyes were hooded and hard as onyx, darting towards the bushes in search of an escape route. For a second, it was as if the knight looked directly at Arthur but the Roman could not be sure. Lancelot's eyes moved furtively across the undergrowth beside the rude path and rested momentarily on the exact patch of briar where Bors and Arthur lay concealed.  
  
The Roman leader resisted the urge to make some signal or sound which Lancelot might recognise. There were grossly outnumbered and the element of surprise was Arthur's sole weapon at present. He could not afford for the Saxons to grow suspicious. Still, Arthur's mind called out to his friend, 'See me now, see me now. I am here.' As quickly as his mind conceived the words, Lancelot was steered away from the two hidden knights.  
  
Bors waited until the men were out of sight before exclaiming, "Damned fools! They've stirred up a bloody hornet's nest now."  
  
"Sssh," Arthur hissed, aware that Bors at his quietest was still most men's idea of significant vocal volume. "We'll follow them to their camp then I want you to ride out to meet Galahad, Dagonet and Tristan. We'll need their help."  
  
"It won't take much to pound their skulls into the ground," Bors spat angrily, already spoiling for a fight.  
  
Arthur glared at him. "I expect that is exactly what Lancelot thought as well. Don't be foolhardy, Bors. We have no idea how many more Saxons we'll find at their camp or what kind of contingencies they have for war in these woods." Making a mental note of where the horses were tied, Arthur led Bors along an adjacent track to one taken by the Saxons.  
  
It was a good half hour's walk before the group came to a large clearing, bordered with huts and makeshift dwellings. There were no women or children, much to Arthur's relief. Families complicated a battlefield, even if the lack of them made it clear these inhabitants were prepared for war. Bors followed him to a camouflaged location from where they had a sufficient view of the encampment to number the forces against them. There were easily fifty men and a large number of swords and shields could be seen propped against the daubed walls of the buildings.  
  
A wide array of livestock were comfortably housed in pens within the vicinity and the stench of pigs could be smelt from a considerable distance. Arthur made a hand gesture to Bors, signalling for him to fetch their fellow knights from the Western side of the forest. Bors nodded curtly, clearly disgruntled at being kept from the fray. Arthur laid low, fearful and apprehensive of Gawain and Lancelot's fates in the absence of an army. No good could come of this situation. Whatever purpose hostages would serve, Arthur knew his friends would rather than die than submit. The Roman only hoped he was in a position to help them before it came to that. If only he could provide some signal, then Lancelot could stall the Saxons for a while until reinforcements arrived. Arthur set about hatching a reasonable plan of action. As soon as the Saxons settled their prisoners somewhere more permanent, he could make his move.

* * *

Lancelot took in his surroundings, grimly noting the large arsenal of weapons amassed around the straw and mud buildings. He felt his heart sink. This was no unruly, disorganised mob of thieves and scoundrels, they were a virtual army with every intention of getting their way. Lancelot knew he had been wrong to give them so little credit and now it would be Gawain who would suffer the consequences of his foolishness.  
  
He obeyed meekly when a Saxon released his hands momentarily and forced him to his knees to one side of the settlement. Gawain was pushed down beside him and the pair exchanged looks of misgiving. They had experienced enough battle situations to understand what would take place next. Both knights kept their heads down, knowing better than to defy their captors with challenging stares.  
  
Many of the men accepted the offer of mead and bread from those who had not been on the mission. They ate and drank, occasionally glancing in the direction of the Sarmations. Their faces showed interest, fascination, disgust and perhaps even a little fear. It was this last emotion which worried Lancelot the most, for fear bred cowardice. Cowardice meant both he and Gawain would likely be dead before dawn broke. Men did not act with any degree of dignity or protocol when fear had gripped them. There was a slim chance that, were he able, Lancelot and Gawain could secure escape based on the Saxon fear alone, but currently they were in no position make any such attempt.  
  
Slowly, the men regrouped into a loose circle around the two degraded knights kneeling pitifully in the mud. 'Please, don't let me die like this,' Lancelot pleaded silently to the heavens. His eyes slid from the mud at his feet in Gawain's direction, hoping to find some residual hope in the eyes of his friend. Gawain either was not aware or refused to meet Lancelot's gaze but, from the heave of his chest, it was clear he did not foresee another day in this world.  
  
Lancelot's mind whirled with possibilities. He had never imagined that he might die like this – shamed and submissive. He saw a death on the battlefield, a death of honour and glory, fighting to the last. Now he was torn. Should he wait and see whether the wheel of fortune turned once more and relieved him from death or should he leap up and make a run for the artillery nearby. He could take a few Saxon scum out with him as he went down. Gawain would surely follow suit.  
  
Before he could make a decision, the lead Saxon stood over the two knights. His hair and beard was characteristically blonde, a common trait amongst the Saxons. Yet, something set this man apart from the rest of the group around him. He had an inherent nobility; an aquiline nose and a steadiness in his eyes which gave Lancelot some hope for negotiation as he lifted his head.  
  
"I am Unferth. What are your names?" His gravely voice was softened now.  
  
"My name is Lancelot."  
  
"Gawain."  
  
Unferth raised his eyebrows as if the names surprised him. "Knights though?"  
  
"Yes," Lancelot replied. There was no shame in telling a foe one's name. It was a sign of honour to know one's opponent so that one might remember one's killer in the next world.  
  
"Look around you," Unferth moved his arm in a swift circular motion around his assembled ramble. Lancelot and Gawain's eyes followed, recognising the change in the Saxons' mood. They were no longer fearful or even interested. Now that their leader was taking control, the only thing reflected in their eyes was malice and thirst for blood. "These are my men and they have worked hard to secure this forest and the land here. These past months, some of us have died at the hands of Romans. They would now like to see some retribution. They wish to see your blood spilt tonight."  
  
Lancelot's jaw tightened while he surveyed the angry faces. His teeth were clenched as he tried to steady his pulsing heart. He said nothing for there was nothing to say. This was the time for the Saxon to speak. If there was a bargain to be struck, it would be offered soon enough.  
  
"Yet, I can see what they cannot. I see more than two knights of Rome, thorns in my side. I see opportunity. Do you?" Unferth continued, his voice adopting genuinely business-like overtones.  
  
Gawain shifted his knees as if trying to get his friend's attention but Lancelot snapped, unheeded, "Not from where I kneel, no."  
  
Gawain looked up once more and quickly added, "What opportunity do you see?" He ignored Lancelot's heated glare. The hot-tempered knight had already got him into hot water and he would rather it did not end up boiling over. Unferth's gaze lingered on the blonde man for a moment or two, as if weighing up who was the superior officer of the pair. He would deal with a leader if there was one.  
  
Slowly, he moved from one man to the other, watching their guarded expressions with detached interest. Finally, he continued, "We have work here. We are keepers of the road. We help lighten the loads of rich traders and merchants as they cross the narrow sea and move up towards the Wall." A smile played across his lips at the rose-tinted image of their Saxon dealings. "Often we are set upon or people do not readily yield what is ours for the taking. You could be of use to us. No one would deny a Roman knight with the correct papers."  
  
"You wish us to steal from innocent people to feed you?!" Lancelot spat. "I would rather die first." Unferth smiled at the irony but said nothing.  
  
Gawain resisted the urge to hit his friend but merely tried to placate the man who held their lives in his hands. "Forgive my companion. His mouth moves faster than his brain. What you propose is entirely against a knight's code." Gawain held Unferth's gaze with his own and saw a man agreeable to a bargain. If the knight could preserve Lancelot's life as well as his own for the night, there was a chance of achieving their mission.  
  
Even if Arthur did not rescue them immediately, the two men would be party to Unferth's strategies. Within the space of a few raids, they would have learned when and where the attacks were made, who the prime targets were, plus where the claimed loot was taken. They would be of more use as undercover agents than dead in a ditch, preserving their precious honour. "However," Gawain continued, "I value my life. I have a home and loved ones to return to. I do not wish to end this way."  
  
Lancelot stared at his friend in horror. "Gawain…" he began, his voice trailing off in shock. Yet, something in the man's face told him there was more afoot. Gawain had rarely spoken of loved ones; in fact, of all the knights, he could barely remember the life he had left behind in Sarmatia. What was he playing at? Lancelot could not tell but neither would he compromise his code of ethics for this cursed Saxon.  
  
"Are you with me?" Gawain urged. His eyes were fierce but Lancelot, ever the independent one, refused to give in without fully understanding what he was doing. Could Gawain really be planning to use their captivity as a means for spying? If that were so, surely it would be better for one of them to maintain some sense of honour.  
  
They had given their true names and the reputations of Arthur and his knights spread far and wide. If Unferth got wind of these tales of honour, duty and bravery, he would be suspicious that both men were so easily swayed. No, someone had to stay true to their code. Gawain had already chosen his role, now Lancelot must do the same.  
  
Squaring his shoulders, he looked the Saxon firmly in the eye. "No. My friend might betray his country and his people for some pieces of gold, but I am not so easily bought. Damn you and your scoundrel thieves to Hell!" Sealing his fate, Lancelot spat at Unferth's feet.  
  
The Saxon's gaze moved once more between the two knights and another smile crossed his lips. "Then both my men and myself will be satisfied tonight." Turning as if to walk away, he whirled back and his fist flew at Lancelot's face with titanic force, knocking the Sarmation onto his back in the mud. The fist unfurled and opened in an offer of help as Gawain struggled to his feet. The blonde knight's brow furrowed in a flicker of concern and frustration as he was led away from Lancelot.  
  
From his hiding place across the settlement, Arthur could only watch helplessly as his best knight was dragged to his feet at Unferth's command and stripped of his armour. He had to act fast or Lancelot would be lost.  
  
END OF PART 3  
  
Thank you very much for reading. Hope you're enjoying it so far. Please, please, please review otherwise I might just have to leave Lancelot to the Saxons!  
  
CAMLANN – Thank you for the compliment on the title. It came from a poem & seemed to fit perfectly. Glad you like the characterisation of Lancelot. I'm just figuring out that my Lancelot has to be a bit of a meathead every now and again, like it takes a bit longer for the penny to drop each time! Never mind, he'll get some heroics later on & good conversation (hope the Muse is with me for that one). Oh, and no, (un)fortunately Gawain & Lancelot were not winning!  
  
LANCEY – Thanks for the wonderful support. Don't worry, lots of danger ahead, especially for the curly dark-haired kind. It's proving a lot harder than I thought to have all the knights involved properly when your heart lies with one in particular!  
  
ALONE DREAMING – How's the Calculus going? I wonder how good our knights would be at that?! I'm thrilled that, even with work to do, you took the time to review. It's so easy to just read & not give the feedback. So, I hope this part has been a worthy instalment.  
  
MODESTY SPARROW – Thank you for the awesome review. Chills up your spine, eh? That's a good thing! Pairing-wise, there isn't going to be any slash but my two fave characters are Lancelot and Gawain, but they're all worthy of being written about. Tristan is going to have an important part to play in this story though. By the way, I haven't forgotten about your story. I promise I'll go & read it & review it very soon.  
  
HGandRHrforever – Ah, yes. Your review did indeed kick my Muse in the ass and squeezed another 8 pages out of me. I'm very pleased & thank you very much! I hope you enjoyed this part. 


	4. Divided They Fall

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY By Allegra 

(See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ah, a Beowulf fan in our midst. No, there'll be no Grendel or Beowulf! Yes, I know I used Unferth but I didn't want to hold up my Muse while I wrangled over an appropriate name for our heroes' nemesis. Suffice to say, I quite liked the idea of Unferth's cowardice & taunting from the Old English text and decided it would be perfect. My Unferth will prove a force to be reckoned with for Lancelot and co. so I thought the irony fitted. Plus, since 'Beowulf' was written considerably later than our stories are set, perhaps it is Unferth the Saxon whose name is taken for the text (only kidding!). That said, I didn't want the name to get in the way of people just reading it, so tell me if you think it's too distracting.

There's a bit of an introduction to magic in this chapter. I am not reinjecting the mythical aspects of King Arthur into the story, just making use of the forest's natural juices for a bit of fun!

Lastly, a huge thank you to Lisa, who has been bugging me every other week since the last chapter to make sure I don't leave this story floundering in the darkness of my 'unfinished fics' folder. You have been a huge inspiration to keep going & I appreciate your kind words.

PART 4 : DIVIDED THEY FALL

Lancelot did not protest when Saxons dragged him towards a post near the stinking pig pen and chained him to it, nor did he fight when they removed his armour. It was providing little warmth and impeded his ability to move his limbs. Besides, it would only rust if the Heavens decided to open. Looking miserably up at the gathering clouds glimpsed between the trees, Lancelot wondered whether it would be hours or mere minutes before his body was soaked to the skin. He wished he'd had Gawain's idea first, then it'd be him sitting in the warmth while Gawain toiled in the mud. Lancelot did not really wish such evils on his friend but it helped the knight to retain some good natured banter, even if it was only in his own head.

A small but menacing band of Saxons spoke in gruff, low tones nearby. They had clearly been set to the watch the knight and that reassured Lancelot a little. However disadvantaged he might be right now, they still feared him somewhat and it would hopefully save him from wild boar attacks - an irrational fear the knight had harboured silently since witnessing a villager being mauled by one in his own pig pen.

* * *

Bors spurred his bewildered horse on towards the western reaches of the forest. He resented Arthur's orders, better prepared for bloodying his sword than playing scout. The chances of crossing Galahad, Dagonet and Tristan's exact path given the huge circumference of the forest were slim at best. He would probably spend most of his time chasing in the wrong direction while the rest of his companions held forth with the Saxons.

Pausing to assess the next best course, Bors caught his breath and sat heaving in the saddle for a moment. His trusty steed seemed to have no greater sense of direction than the knight astride him and both panted heavily in the night, dark as obsidian. Thank gods that the man had stopped at that exact moment in time for strange rustlings could be heard faintly in the distance to his right. They were too far to make out clearly but whatever was moving through the undergrowth was definitely large. For a second, Bors regretted his desire for a fight and prayed, perhaps for the first time, that the gods had not answered his pleas. A Saxon battle was a welcome one, but he did not like his chances of victory against the odds of one to fifty.

Something close to panic quickened the beat of his heart in his chest. The horse whinnied in protest as Bors held him steady. The knight's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He knew he had the advantage here - awareness of his enemy's presence while they were oblivious to his. However, unfortunately perhaps for him, Bors knew not how to flee a fight. It was in his nature to seek assaults with the same zeal with which he sought drink at the end of the day.

A flutter above him alerted him to something or someone hiding amongst the branches of the forest. Bors swore under his breath, afraid that he had been wrong. These were no Saxons, they were Woads, concealed in the natural fabric of the trees as if they were part of them. In these conditions, on their territory, even a bullish knight like Bors knew he stood no chance. Nudging the complaining horse forwards, his sword flew from its scabbard as something flew at his face. Bors tried to defend himself but quickly felt the touch of feathers on his arm as Tristan's hawk landed on his shoulder. "Damned bird!" the knight exclaimed, relief evident beneath the hardened edge of his voice. "I'll pluck you to your last feather and roast you tonight," he muttered, good naturedly.

Dimly, he heard the familiar whistle of Tristan, calling his bird home. The hawk flapped her wings and ascended into the sky, ensuring she stayed close enough to Bors to guide him back to his friends.

* * *

As sure as night follows day, rain came with the rising wind. At first it was little more than relieving drops which Lancelot raised his head to receive. He opened his mouth, savouring every droplet that ran down his parched throat. He had ridden hard that day and emptied his skin long ago, expecting to find more water before the day was out. He had certainly not expected to receive it in such a pure form. The youthful knight leaned his head back against the pole to which he was tethered and closed his eyes. There was little to be grateful for at this particular moment in time so he might as well enjoy the small relief the heavens had finally offered.

Laughing could be heard from the tent where Gawain was housed. Lancelot winced at the sound, as if he were certain he were the object of ridicule. In spite of the loss of feeling in his severely bound hands and the threat of the same fate falling his feet, Lancelot found himself feeling the first twinge of gratitude that it was him out here. He was so tired and his heavy eyelids threatened to close with every blink he took. If it were his job to appease the Saxons without saying something amiss, Lancelot believed he would be dead by now. The knight's brain was barely functioning any longer, whether from cold or sheer fatigue he could not tell. Allowing the wooden stake to take the weight of his lolling head, Lancelot allowed himself a second's respite, closing his eyes for just a moment.

When he opened his eyes once more, Lancelot was surprised to find that he was soaking through but the dark sky was dry once more. He wondered how long he had been asleep and wished he could brush aside the curling tendrils of hair that had fallen forward onto his face, getting in his eyes. Peering around what he could see of the camp, Lancelot found his eye drawn to some small movement in the bushes just beyond the light of the fire. For a while, he wondered if some kind of fever was taking his brain because the shape seemed to be dimly outlined as man shaped. Lancelot pulled himself into as upright a position as his tired, wet, bound body would allow and peered more closely into the darkness. Just as he thought his eyes must have been deceiving him, the flash of a sword proved him right. Then, a second later, a pair of eyes appeared from amidst the foliage. It took Lancelot a moment to adjust his vision but it took him only seconds to recognise the owner of those eyes. He would recognise them anywhere. Thank God. Arthur. He would get him out of this mess.

He knew it would not look good and that he would be subjected to many a chastisement and tease from his fellow knights but, right now, Lancelot did not care. He wanted to be free to seek out the nearest inn with a good bed and some strong ale, perhaps even a wench to accompany him. On the second thought, he was even too tired to consider that for long. Never mind, the knight's strength would be regained by tomorrow.

The two knights' eyes met in the gloom but while Arthur's registered something bordering on relief, Lancelot showed no admittance that he had seen anything beyond the eternal trees and scrub. He could not afford to draw attention to the rescue mission. Instead, Lancelot turned his eyes to the earth and then glanced warily at the Saxon guards drinking and talking some distance from his post. They had failed to notice any exchange so Lancelot stole a quick glance back to his leader's hiding place. They bushes swayed a little unusually in the dying wind and he caught sight of Arthur's retreating figure. Lancelot settled back. He could do nothing but wait now.

* * *

Arthur had been waiting for this moment for some time. He breathed a sigh of relief once he was sure Lancelot had seen him. At first, he had been convinced that the young knight had looked directly through him but experience had taught him better. Lancelot might have been hot-headed to get himself into this mess but he was the best when it came to stealth. Moving round to where the Saxon guards had their backs to him, Arthur prepared to take the pair out. The task would not be difficult given how much ale had passed the two men's lips. The real issue would be releasing Lancelot without the men in the lit tent noticing. While they were clearly engrossed in their merriment and discussion inside, Arthur noticed that their eyes regularly wandered back to the captive outside. With Gawain at their mercy, the Roman could not risk endangering him without being sure that he stood a good chance of releasing Lancelot before anyone saw. Inching forward, his sword drawn, Arthur leaped like an unsprung coil.

He knocked the first Saxon into the mud with a sharp blow to the chin which left him floundering on the ground long enough to draw a knife across the other man's neck. Finishing the second, who had barely found his feet again, with a stab to the chest, Arthur propped the Saxons back up against their stools in a sorry imitation of drunkenness. His eyes quickly surveyed the small clearing for any other assailants but there were none. Lancelot made no acknowledgement of the murders carried out within yards of him. He knew only too well that he was in plain sight of the main tent and could not show any signs of a scuffle. Arthur took a step forward, his back bent nearly into a crouch. Then, he quickly ducked as a figure emerged from the central tent. It was Gawain.

END OF PART 4

HgandRHrforever & Stahlfan125 - Sorry it's taken so long for the update, but I hope there's enough Lancelot in this one to keep you appeased for a little while!

DrinkSparkyCola - I've explained my whole Unferth thing at the beginning of this chapter in case there are any other Beowulf readers out there. I'm really glad you're enjoying it & thank you very much for reviewing it!

Alone Dreaming - I'm sorry I haven't been there for you through all those calc classes! I'll try & be a little more present. I hope this goes some way to making the time pass a bit quicker. Lots of angst on its way...very soon.

Lancey - Thanks for the review. Lots of Lancelot, I promise. He's building up to some major angst in the next few chapters. Hope you're still enjoying it & sorry for the massive wait!

Misty Satin Dream, Enelya Wood, szhismine, Excalibur2 - Thank you for the encouraging reviews. I promise there'll be plenty of angst all round (certainly lots for my lovely Lancelot & Gawain as well as Arthur). Sorry for making you wait so long. I hope this bit is reasonably worthy, even if it's not that long.


	5. Formed & Foiled

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY 

By Allegra

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't begin another chapter without giving a massive THANK YOU to Lisa for her constant but kindly prodding promptly every month to stop me sitting back on my laurels for too long! I have way too many fics languishing unfinished & I dip back into all of them every now and then but she's kept my Arthurian flame burning. Thank you! Plus, a big thank you to all my reviewers. Knowing people are reading always raises a writer's game so they can't get too lazy so this would probably a complete pile of boring !&? without you. I really hope you like this part. The Lancelot angst is most definitely coming & lots of it but a few things need to happen first…

PART 5 : FORMED & FOILED

The darkness was like a cloak, hiding those in the forest from friends and enemies alike. Dagonet had been in Bors' shadow since they first met and their friendship was borne out of their differences. The burly Bors was a showman who enjoyed nothing more than regaling anyone who would listen with bawdy stories or tales of his own prowess. If he had none of those, he would simply make merry very loudly and allow his booming voice to reach everyone within a mile's range. Dagonet, on the other hand, was shy and retiring to those new to his company. He did not react to his friend's outrageous displays but watched quietly, his face betraying no opinion of the events unfolding.

Bors had not reacted well to this behaviour at first, determined as he was to be centre of everyone's attentions. Yet, over time he came to realise that Dagonet was the one person he could be himself around. The younger man did not look to him for entertainment and, as it happened, Dagonet did indeed have an opinion on many matters. In one another, the pair shared an ease they could not find in others. Bors was settled, almost contemplative at times, while Dagonet often shared his thoughts on their latest mission. While he did not like speaking his mind openly to Arthur and the rest of the company, Dagonet knew that Bors would consider his friend's ideas and present them as if they were his own to the others at a later date. Dagonet did not mind that he had no share of the glory in that and, besides, he knew only too well that Arthur understood the relationships between his men.

Now, in the gloom, Dagonet hoped Tristan's plan to find Bors and Arthur would be fruitful. He could not imagine continuing this fight without his barrel-chested friend by his side. As if in answer to his call, Tristan's bird flew into view above them, circling for a moment before falling to her master's shoulder with alarming precision.

A second later, snapping twigs could be heard to the group's right and Galahad drew his sword, warily, ever cautious of danger. He was tempted to call out his leader's name but feared betraying him if the rustling turned out to be Saxons. A muttered curse could be heard followed by a louder roar of anger and the bushes rustled violently.

Dagonet's pursed lips spread into a wide grin, "Bors! Save your strength for the Saxons!" he laughed. In response, a red-faced knight emerged from the undergrowth with twigs and leaves stuck down his neck and between the gaps in his armour. His face was a mask of fury but Dagonet recognised the relief and happiness kindled behind it. "These damned cowardly Saxons! Why can't they come out into the open like real men!" he ranted.

Galahad and Tristan had already moved beyond relief that one more of their company was restored to them and Galahad asked urgently, "Where's Arthur?"

Bors, usually fairly forthcoming, was silent for a second, his face showing his feelings on the matter. "Courting trouble," he blurted out, gruffly. "Let's move out of here." The others did not argue with him, realising that there was more to Bors' words than met the eye.

Without complaint or question, Tristan led the way to a more secluded space on the outskirts of the woods, where they were able to listen out for signs of danger while discussing the next course of action. There, the group dismounted. Galahad could barely contain the questions which had been composing and burning in his mind from the moment Bors had found his way to them. He managed to wait with a degree of civility until his fellow knights were seated more comfortably on the ground before asking, "Where is Arthur?"

"In there," Bors gestured to the thick trees at their backs. "But the better question would have been, where are Lancelot and Gawain? That I can tell you just as plainly. They've found themselves a spot of bother on their side."

"Saxons?" Dagonet asked.

"None other. A right mess they've made for themselves, too," Bors added as he retrieved some smoked meat from his knapsack and chewed on it.

"So what are we waiting around here for then!" Galahad demanded in disbelief that Bors should be so calm about the situation.

Tristan, ever calm, had already perceived the delay. "They are grossly outnumbered. How did Arthur get involved?"

"He has not…yet. He's watching and waiting for an opportunity to release them. An opportunity which I doubt will be forthcoming. He sent me back to you for reinforcements. Someone needs to head to the nearest town or outpost and recruit some Roman infantry."

"What makes you so sure they will be willing? We are not as renowned in these parts, friend. We cannot drop Arthur's name and expect an army to fall in line beside us, willing to part with their lives for such a price." Tristan rarely minced his words and Bors often needed his ego deflating. There was nothing to be gained by entering the situation with unchecked bravado.

"Do you have any better suggestions?" Dagonet asked, eager to back up Bors' idea. The prospect of losing any of his companions to Saxons was abhorrent to him and he resented having to stand around talking for any longer than absolutely necessary.

"Arthur is our leader, we trust him with our lives every day. Why should we have reason to doubt his abilities now? I propose Bors guides us back to the Saxon camp. Arthur sent you to find us. Hopefully, we few will be enough to resolve the situation."

"What! And take on all those Saxons alone?" Galahad sounded horrified. He was not afraid of a fight but neither was he happy to enter one when the chances of his own and Gawain's survival were so slim.

Tristan shook his head. "We are not looking for a fight yet, Galahad." He levelled his gaze firmly at Bors as he spoke. "Stealth is our mission. We have the advantage here of knowing our enemy while they do not know us. We are looking for an opportunity to release our friends, not wage a war on them. That is best saved until we have slept and eaten well." He waited for a response of outrage but received none. They knew better than to question him. Tristan never spoke without thinking and the plan seemed sound enough. "Bors, can you lead us there?"

"Of course," the burly man replied perhaps a little too quickly to be of comfort. He was not known for his navigational skills but the group had no choice but to follow him. They wasted no time mounting their steeds and retracing Bors path through the woods, silently praying Arthur had not acted without them.

* * *

Gawain's face spoke volumes as he approached his bedraggled friend through the freezing rain. He was carrying an ornate goblet of wine, no doubt a spoil the Saxons had stolen for themselves. Hard lines drew across the blonde knight's face, a frown which told of troubles yet to unfold. Lancelot cast one brief glance in his friend's direction but he refused to allow his outward appearance to betray the fact that he felt ashamed to be tied to a post by Saxons while Gawain went free. Nor did he check to see where Arthur might have retreated to. Lancelot was certain the Saxon leaders would be watching this little interlude very carefully indeed.

Gawain squatted down in front of his friend, darting a fleeting look back in the direction of the tent. Like Lancelot, he knew the thin ice they trod. "A fine mess you've landed us in now," he murmured, a hint of a gleam in his eye. Gawain knew better than to rub salt in Lancelot's wounds at this point. Besides, the fate of his friend was even more uncertain than his own.

"Well, you seem to be managing just fine," Lancelot noted, dryly.  
Gawain's face grew suddenly serious. "This is no game, Lancelot. You should know how precariously your life hangs. These Saxons have no need for a stubborn knight, except to conquer."

Lancelot did not appreciate the image those words now conjured in his brain. He had seen the fine art Saxons created with the mutilated bodies of their foes all too many times. "Is that what you came to tell me?" he asked.

"They want me to try and persuade you to join them." Gawain tried to stifle the bitterness in his voice but Lancelot was already in a bad enough mood, with the humiliation and damp cold. He was in no mood to humour his friend. "You mean join 'you'."

Gawain cocked his head to one side in a warning manner. "Do not pretend to misunderstand my actions. I am trying to help you."

"I must strike a very attractive pose as the helpless maiden. I appear to be aided on all sides," Lancelot smiled mildly.

Gawain frowned, "What do you mean?"

The dark-haired knight gave an almost indecipherable nod in the direction he had last seen Arthur. "Good old Arthur has found us. He just killed those two guards." Gawain peered closer at the two men slumped in their positions. He had thought them to be asleep but now, on closer examination, it was clear that they were dead. The blonde knight cursed under his breath.

"What's the matter? Put out that you didn't get here first?"

"Lancelot. Do not jest. If we have eyes, so do the Saxons. You cannot escape from here, believe me. Look at where you are positioned! In a clearing, surrounded by your enemy." Gawain took a gulp of his wine and glanced back towards the tent and the watching eyes of Unferth.

"Well, Arthur has managed thus far. If you could just keep them busy for a few more minutes…" Lancelot began.

"And then what? The moment I return from talking to you, you disappear. It would mean almost certain death for me!" Gawain pointed out, indignantly. He knew he did not always see eye to eye with his comrade but he refused to believe Lancelot would leave him to die now.

"They need you, Gawain. We would bring reinforcements and release you. You are in the best position for uncovering their plans. You are our spy! I am nothing more than sport – you said so yourself." Lancelot's dark eyes danced with intensity.

Gawain did not speak for a moment, his jaw clenched in stern concentration. At the same time, Arthur made a vague movement with his sword from behind one of the guards' bodies where he was concealed. The moonlight glanced off the blade, catching Gawain's eye. He shook his head as discreetly as he could manage. He motioned to the tent with his eyes, knowing full well how Unferth watched them.

Suddenly afraid that these whispered words might rouse the man's suspicions, Gawain leaned forward and offered the goblet to Lancelot. "It'll take more than some crushed grapes to change my mind, friend," Lancelot chided. A little embarrassed at having to be fed the wine like a baby, unable to use his hands, Lancelot was nevertheless grateful for some kind of sustenance. It had been almost twelve hours since he had eaten or drunk anything apart from rain water and his spirits needed revitalising.

Over the rim of the goblet, Lancelot noticed Gawain's gaze shift from his own to Arthur's in silent communication. He only hoped Arthur did not heed the young knight's warning. Lancelot had been sitting out in the cold for several hours and was well versed in the comings and goings which had occurred. If Gawain returned to the tent and distracted Unferth, there would be no possibility of being caught escaping.

Lancelot saw Gawain's eyes widen in alarm and the dark-haired knight could not resist the urge to turn and see what was happening. From the corner of his eye, Lancelot could see Arthur creeping forward once more, ever closer to the dangerous openness of the clearing where the two knights were situated. Realising that all three of them were likely to be killed if he didn't do something, Gawain muttered a curse and stood up. He flung the last of the wine from the goblet onto the ground beside him and strode back towards the tent. Even in his limited time with Unferth, the young knight was already realising how clever the Saxon was. Nothing would escape him. He feared that Lancelot and Arthur grossly underestimated the danger they were in.

* * *

When Gawain returned to the tent, his stomach was taut with nerves. He wanted nothing more than to end this game. Every word he spoke had to be contemplated carefully, measured and balanced against what Unferth wanted to hear and without betraying his comrades. Now, to make matters worse, Arthur was dangerously close to discovery in the most open part of the enemy camp. It was a heavy burden for one man to bear alone.

Seeing the look on Unferth's face did nothing to alleviate the knight's load. Suspicion burned in the older man's eyes and Gawain tried not to let his confidence falter under the scrutiny. The Saxon moved closer, the stench of sour grapes on his breath. "Was your friend amenable?"

Gawain shook his head, "I'm afraid not. He refuses to give up the knight's code."

Unferth laughed as if the situation were the best joke he had heard in many a day. "Well, that's his choice. Not a sensible but his to make, nonetheless."

Gawain swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He did not like the gloomy direction this conversation was heading and he grasped feebly at what he hoped was a ray of salvation for Lancelot. "I will speak with him again tomorrow."

"Will you?" Unferth exclaimed, bluntly. "You will do as I say, I alone." His grey eyes were like a storm at sea, with a lightning gleam that burned menacingly below the surface. "Your friend has wasted his chance. He has chosen to live his life as a knight… and he will die as one."

For the first time that hour, Gawain prayed that Arthur's foolhardy plan would be successful because, right now, the Roman was Lancelot's best chance of survival. Desperate, the knight clutched at a final straw. "Please. Give him a night to reconsider. He can be thick-headed but he is no dullard. I am sure, with time, Lancelot will realise there is little life to be found in preserving one's honour."

Unferth smiled and the expression made Gawain feel tainted and dirty. He might be playing the part of spy but, in the company of the Saxons, Gawain felt a true traitor and he hated himself for it.

"It is a shame Lancelot does not share your lax morals, Gawain." He studied the young knight's face with keenness. "Besides, your friend's death will give my men the satisfaction they have been craving these past weeks." Gawain opened his mouth to protest but Unferth swiftly cut him off. "Not to mention the added solidarity it will give you to our cause. You understand? One so easily swayed from his knightly code might be swayed again, no?"

Fearing he might inadvertently sign his own death warrant, Gawain kept silent. Quietly racking his brains for some way of stalling Lancelot's demise, the knight agreed to the offer of dinner round the small table erected in the tent. As long as he was in the company of Unferth, Gawain would know the moment Lancelot's death warrant had been signed.

Still, as the Saxon talked as if they were old friends, Gawain's mind was in tumult. One of his closest friends was about to be killed and he was expected to enjoy a hearty meal. Then again, things had remained pretty quiet outside the tent. Was it possible that Arthur's rescue mission had been successful? Without thinking, Gawain's blue eyes roamed towards the tent entrance and, before he could catch himself, Unferth's gruff voice enquired, "Forget your friend, Gawain." Gawain let out a disbelieving puff of air. In his disquietened state, even the hostage knight's good grace was failing.

Unferth paused, a chicken leg posed close to his mouth and, for a minute, it looked like he was going to punish Gawain's insubordination. His eyes bore into the younger man's but the blonde knight did not waver. If he was going to meet death, he would meet it with the dignity he had come to learn in this hard life.

Gawain was relieved when Unferth broke eye contact with a shrug, "He is one of your…tribe?" Gawain nodded silently. "You are a knight. You must have lost countless comrades on the battlefield." The Saxon jerked his head in the direction of where Lancelot was tethered. "His death will be no different."

"Captured, stripped of his defences and murdered for sport by Saxons? I fail to see any comparison to an honourable death in battle," Gawain muttered, bitterly.

"Perhaps you are getting cold feet, young knight. Perhaps you would rather join your friend," Unferth said coldly, his meaning crystal clear. This exchange was over but Gawain could not hold back his final words.

"I would not, but forgive me if I still hold some lingering affection for a comrade of fourteen years." Gawain hoped that the truth of his words was convincing enough for a man who appeared to have few sensibilities. Once more, his dark blue eyes trailed in the direction of Lancelot and the darkness he knew concealed his commander. What he saw made Gawain wish he had not looked.

Arthur was by the post tethering Lancelot and was rapidly sawing through the thick, coarse rope with a small dagger. The task was taking too long, that much was clear. Gawain's eyes narrowed as he tried to make out the two shapes more clearly, then he quickly turned away…too late. Unferth had seen the knight's sudden interest and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

The Saxon turned and Gawain's stomach lurched as he fumbled for some way to distract his host. Silencing the young man's stammered attempts to foil him with a cast of his hand, Unferth stood and moved closer to the tent's opening. Gawain's mind roiled with the paths open to him. If he called out Arthur's name, it would mean certain death for him, too, and the mission would be lost. No matter how dear his friends were to him, Gawain had taken an oath when he was rudely snatched from his family and home. His purpose in life had been made clear and he was obliged to fulfil his promise, no matter what the cost to others.

Desperately and foolishly, Gawain pushed forward, past Unferth, but the great Saxon had anticipated his reaction. Without warning, his fist flew at the young Sarmation's face, catching Gawain between his cheek and temple. It was followed in quick succession by another blow to the base of the man's spine, knocking him to his knees.

Gawain felt unwelcome tears well in his eyes from the sheer volume of pain coursing through his back. The punch had been well placed, a product of years of close contact fighting experience. Unferth knew exactly how to bring a man to his knees and Gawain fought to pull himself upright. His fingers dug into the muddy earth in front of him, nails filling with wet particles of soil and damp straw. Between concentrating on the overwhelming pain which was slowly subsiding, Gawain prayed his movements had been enough to alert Arthur and allow him a chance to escape the encampment.

When he finally lifted his head, the moment had already passed.

* * *

From Lancelot's vantage point, he had seen the full horror of the scene unfold directly in front of him. Keeping a close eye on Unferth, who had his back to them, Arthur had crept out from behind the slumped body of a Saxon guard towards his second-in-command. "Are you hurt?" was his first question, green eyes surveying the Sarmation's body and face with concern.

Lancelot shook his head, knowing full well that the throbbing bruise blackening his left eye probably looked suitably gruesome to arouse concern. "I'm fine." He winced a little as he shuffled forward as far as his aching limbs would allow so that Arthur could cut the ropes. His arms prickled in protest as feeling gradually returned to the twisted limbs.

"Damned Saxons!" Arthur cursed. "The ropes are twined with metal threads."

Lancelot reassured his leader, "Gawain seems to have his new friend under control. We have some time." Once more, the knight had underestimated the shrewdness of the Saxon. "How did you find us?" he enquired, genuinely interested in how anyone other than a Woad could find their way in this infernal wood.

Arthur let out a heavy breath of irritation as he sliced at the rope again. "We just followed the sound of drums. Be still!" he commanded.

"Arthur, be quick!" Lancelot's voice held an unusual urgency and the Roman lifted his head momentarily to see the cause of alarm. He was just in time to see Gawain receive a violent blow to the head followed by another to his back which brought him to his knees. The scenario played out faster than Arthur could react. He knew Gawain had put himself in danger to alert them but, with their eyes turned towards the imposing figure of Unferth, both Lancelot and Arthur had failed to see the brief glance the Saxon cast into the gloom behind them.

An arrow followed in quick succession, finding its mark with ease. Arthur, who had already scrambled to his feet with sword drawn, froze in shock and spreading pain. The sharp, metal head was embedded deeply behind his right shoulder blade. An inch closer to the left and he would be dead on his feet.

Lancelot's eyes widened in horror and he could not suppress a cry, "Arthur!"

Arthur's gaze, already glazed with pain, turned to meet his friend's. Time seemed to slow as if the world were coming to a halt and the Roman could not stop his heavy body from sinking to the ground. He had been injured in battle many a time, received sword and arrow wounds with reasonable frequency, but something about this was different. The sensation befuddled him and Arthur shook his head weakly, trying to dispel the feeling that he was walking in a dream. He found it hard to control his limbs and the fuzzy sensation seemed to be overtaking his entire body.

Dimly, the Roman could hear Lancelot's urgent voice calling his name but his slack jaw and failing voice could not respond.

Lancelot struggled in his bonds, hoping Arthur's knife had performed its task well enough to release him. He ignored the fiery pain as his raw wrists grated on the rough rope, futilely. Realising he was still at the Saxons' mercy, Lancelot shouted, "Arthur, get away from here! Go!"

Even in the thick fog veiling his brain and senses, Arthur could still make out his fellow knight's words. If he did not flee, death would be upon him momentarily. At least in the woods, he stood a slim chance of evading the Saxons and finding the rest of the knights before the poison claimed him completely. Stumbling to his feet, slipping in the damp mud, Arthur ordered his cumbersome legs to walk, then run. He brandished his sword wildly in front of him, feeling the weight of a man against it, uncertain who he had slain. Before he knew it, he felt the damp cool of leaves against his face and welcomed it.

More than anything, Arthur wanted to sink to the ground and succumb to the strong potion already coursing through his veins, but he willed his body on. He had to get away, to get strong, to return for his captured knights. Unferth would have set men on his trail. He was weakened, outnumbered and already lost. The odds were not good but, in spite of this, Arthur soldiered on. He would not die like this. He would live to see Gawain and Lancelot free once more.

END OF PART 5


	6. Sin & Shame

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

Author's Note: Massive sorry for the delay again. I was struggling with getting Lancelot's angst right. Again, a HUGE thank you to Lisa whose regular nagging finally helped me understand what Lancelot's torture must be like (only kidding!). I hope you enjoy it.

PART 6 : SIN AND SHAME

"Get up!" Unferth snarled and, for a moment, Gawain wondered if he was going to kick him. Touching a finger to his temple, the knight winced as a sharp pain lacerated across his head. He dragged himself to his feet, somewhat dazed as well as confused as to what had taken place in the last few seconds. He could not see Arthur and, from the direction Lancelot was looking, it was evident the Roman had managed to escape into the woods.

Unferth jerked his head in the direction of two Saxons waiting expectantly for permission to chase their prey. Without a word, they took off into the undergrowth, swords drawn. As soon as Gawain had gained his footing, Unferth gripped his upper arm with vice-like strength and tugged the knight in Lancelot's direction. Gawain feared the worst. Would this be the end of them both? The gods knew if anything could anger the Saxons into bloodletting, this night had seen it all.

As Gawain was brought up hard alongside his friend, even in the dim firelight, he could see the paleness of Lancelot's skin. Dark brown eyes searched the perimeter of the forest as if he expected to see into it's heart. The man did not show any signs that he was aware of their presence. Finally, Lancelot lifted his face to meet Unferth's unwavering, cold gaze.

The Saxon spoke gruffly, "You disappoint me. I would have expected a knight's rescue mission to be a little more successful. That was feeble to say the least." Lancelot did not reply neither did he meet Gawain's desperate gaze. Unferth did not appear concerned with being given the silent treatment. "What was the name you called?" The older man's narrowed with intent, boring into the knight tethered at his feet.

Yet, Unferth could not see what Gawain could – the demonic pyre of flames Arthur's name lit behind his dark friend's eyes. Lancelot could be hot-headed but there was nothing so sure to boil his blood as a threat to his fellow knights. Gawain wished he could say something, try to douse the fire hidden in the tumultuous depths of those Sarmation eyes, but he knew it was futile. Lancelot refused to look at him, only too aware of the reproaching expression Gawain would return. Words would do nothing but anger him further.

"Arthur, was it not?" Unferth asked, stretching out the syllables as if testing it, tasting it. "Not the great Artorius surely? Arthur of the Great Wall?" Still gripping Gawain's arm, the Saxon leaned closer to his victim, a smile playing on his thin lips as he recognised Lancelot's defensive glare. Like a hyena circling it's prey, he was toying with the knight. "I'm sure it cannot be so. The famous Arthur would not fail to cut a few ropes."

Lancelot's jaw tightened as he battled with his rage…and lost. "Arthur will wipe out your cursed race with his little finger!"

Gawain closed his eyes, resigning himself to the fate Lancelot was carving out for the pair of them.

Unferth laughed at Lancelot's lack of restraint. "I can see now that I have a greater need for your friend than I thought." Unferth moved closer until his hot breath lifted Gawain's hair and the younger man fought not to gag on the smell of decaying teeth. "You betrayed yourself, young knight. If you cannot let a fellow knight die in the hands of a Saxon, what will you do when confronted with belligerent peasants on the Stane road?"

Gawain opened his mouth to answer but Unferth stopped him. "Don't worry, Gawain. I will help you find your mettle. Any time you step out of line, any expression of resentment or treachery to the Saxon cause will be punished…and Lancelot will receive that punishment. Do you understand me?" The sneer curling the edges of Unferth's mouth was enough to make Gawain shudder. The blonde knight had seen enough of the older man to know what he was capable of.

Swallowing to wet his parched throat, Gawain nodded assent. "I understand," he managed although his voice sounded hoarse.

Unferth glanced back at Lancelot, admiring the defiance burning in the young man's eyes. He nodded, "Yes, I shall enjoy breaking him." Looking up, he called out for some of his men, their names sounding ugly and thick to the Sarmation knights. "We must put this behind us, Gawain, if we are to work alongside one another. I always like to begin a new day afresh, bereft of past aggressions. Let your sins be washed away." He released his iron hold on the blonde knight's arm and hooked it amicably around his shoulders, steering Gawain away from where Lancelot was already being released from his bonds. "May the first act of atonement be carried out."

Gawain strained to look back over his shoulder, finally meeting Lancelot's angry gaze. He knew how stubborn his friend could be and the danger this put him in struck fear deep in Gawain's heart. He knew now that his prime concern must be following Unferth's instructions without question and without remorse. For Lancelot's sake.

* * *

The first grey streaks of cloud hailed a dreary dawn and the small band of knights were despondent. Three of their party were unaccounted for, one of them their leader of fourteen years and all of them close friends. With the harsh torch of day burning above their heads, there was little opportunity for stealthy approach on the Saxon camp.

Bors had proved a lousy scout and the group were only lucky he was big enough to have broken plenty of branches for Tristan to find their course without too much difficulty. Unfortunately, following the burly knight's path often meant walking in circles before finally moving on from a patch of brambles. Bors was defensive, Dagonet tried to placate him with gentle jibes while Galahad was irritable. Only Tristan remained silent, leading the band forward until finally he came to rest and dismounted.

"Where's the camp?" Galahad demanded, impatience lacing his voice.

"Not far from here. The sun is rising. We need the cloak of night to carry out any operation successfully. We are not far from the outskirts of the forest. I suggest we leave the horses to graze out there and return on foot." Tristan spoke quietly with the customary deliberation which always meant he was obeyed.

"Leave the horses? And how do you propose we evade the Saxons if our plan turns sour?" Bors nagged.

Tristan deadpanned, "We had better not let it."

Galahad followed Tristan, dismounting his horse and stroking the mare's nose gently whilst Bors muttered angrily under his breath. "Unless you have a better idea, Bors." He knew that would silence the older man.

"You'd follow your friends happily over the edge of a cliff if they recommended it! You're like a puppy dog that always comes back for an extra kicking." Bors grumbled. He was not normally so easily antagonised but he was feeling a degree of responsibility for their late arrival at the site as well as any fate which might have befallen Arthur.

Galahad was accustomed to such words, being the youngest of the knights. Gawain had taken him under his wing and the trust each put in the other was often cause for comment. Apart from Tristan, all of Arthur's knights had one companion who knew them better than any other but they all trusted each other with their lives on a daily basis. "I'll give you a kick in a minute if you don't pipe down," Galahad retaliated, moving away from the hornet's nest he had stirred up.

Dagonet managed to quieten his surly friend and the pair dismounted their horses then followed suit. The horses were led to the edge of the forest and left to graze. "Dagonet and Bors, you watch the horses while Galahad and I check out the camp. I'd like to see what we're up against."

"Why us? I want to come." Bors was always first to leap into action but Tristan was firm.

"No offence, but I think you might scupper any plans of creeping up we might have. You're not exactly…" Tristan eyed the man, searching for the right words.

"Not exactly what?" Bors demanded, indignantly.

"He's trying to think of a polite word for raucous," Galahad interjected.

Dagonet smiled, "He's right, Bors. You can't shut your bread hole for more than five minutes, and in daylight…?" He didn't need to finish. Bors swore loudly and marched away across the grass.

Galahad couldn't resist a smirk and caught a twitching smile from the ever taciturn Tristan. The two men turned their back on the grassy sanctuary of the fields where the golden sun was rising from her bed and headed back towards the prickly gloom of the forest.

* * *

The marred, grey dress of Dawn swept across the southern skies as she touched cool fingers to the open plains and crevasses of the land. Gawain heard the first birds breaking into a morning chorus but his restless, guilt-laden mind was too far away to hear the beauty in their song. Night had brought no sleep to him and the slow awakening of the world aroused naught but fear in his heart. For long hours, he had wracked his brains for a way to escape the waking nightmare that had become his life. No matter which way he turned, Gawain was thwarted, his actions bringing nothing but grief to those he cared for most.

Unferth had ordered a tent to be prepared for his new guest and the young knight had been treated with a fair degree of civility by the Saxons. Clearly they had been warned against mistreatment of Gawain. He had been pleasantly surprised by the comfort afforded him and had been wary of the young girl pushed roughly through the tent opening. At first, Gawain wondered if she were being offered to him as a seal of the arrangement between him and Unferth.

The girl's green eyes peered out from beneath a thatch of straw coloured hair, wild with suspicion and fear. "I have brought you fresh clothes." She held out a pile of wool garments with shaking hands.

Gawain was speechless at first and accepted them silently before remembering his manners. "Thank you." He wanted to be alone and turned away from her, hoping to precipitate her departure. Instead she waited patiently and he turned back to her, questioningly.

"I will wash your clothes and polish your armour. My father wills it." The tremor in the young girl's voice was already evening out and her green eyes surveyed him with a mixture of apprehension and fascination. Gawain wasn't sure if she was revolted by him or thought him some kind of god.

"And who is your father?" he asked.

"Unferth. He says I must treat you as I would him. He says you will bring us great fortune." Her voice grew in strength with every word until defiance tinged each syllable.

Gawain could almost detect a note of hatred entering the dulcet tones but he chose to ignore it. "Then might I have the pleasure of your name? I am honoured to be served by such nobility."

"Aedre," she replied.

"I am Gawain. Aedre? The name is foreign to me. What does it mean?" The knight's mind could not be further removed from the task of wooing a young maiden but neither was foolish enough to ignore the advantage having Unferth's daughter on his defence could provide. Nevertheless, he could see from the cold expression on her face that the task was going to be an arduous one.

"It means 'stream'. I was birthed beside one – the first child of our tribe to be born in this land." Already caught off guard by such interest in her, Aedre's face softened as she surveyed Gawain from head to toe. He stared back as they both settled into the strangeness of their exchange. Her clear voice broke the silence. "Your clothes and armour?" she asked, curtly.

Gawain gestured to the discarded breastplate and greaves at the foot of his makeshift bed. Aedre gathered them up and Gawain could not hold back a smile as she staggered a little under the unexpected weight of so much metal heaped upon her. "It is a wonder you can stand at all in all this tin," she muttered, casting a half glance back in his direction.

"I will leave the rest of my clothes outside the tent door," Gawain added, thinking better of making a further joke about her predicament. Aedre nodded and rushed out, leaving the blonde knight to return to his darkened thoughts.

He had not had a moment alone since Lancelot was hauled away by burly Saxon men. Now, left with his own thoughts and fears, Gawain was in danger of realising the full horror of what was unfolding in front of his eyes. 'Friendly' guards had been posted at his door, just in case of misadventure, and Gawain was under no illusion about how difficult it would be to escape. In fact, the knight was slowly understanding the full terms of his agreement with Unferth. The weight of it lay heavy on his shoulders and he began to comprehend how the body may be broken but the mind may be just as brutally assaulted.

While he slept in a fine bed with sheepskins, warm, dry clothes, shared good food and drank the best wine, Lancelot would suffer with equal measure. The knowledge already began to gnaw at Gawain's soul. Lancelot might have got them into this mess but even that made Gawain's fear and love for his friend greater. The curly-haired knight was like an impetuous child when it came to adventure and had been no different on this excursion. Like responding to a child, Gawain felt protective of him now. The knight could only pray that Lancelot did not make matters worse for himself, lashing out like a caged animal against captors who cared nothing for mercy. Unferth's words echoed in Gawain's mind, "I shall enjoy breaking him,". The thought made him shudder. Gawain would be forced to follow whatever order Unferth chose to give him or risk having Lancelot's death on his hands. The knight could not imagine a more horrific way to exist, a worse time to live through…but then he was not in Lancelot's shoes.

* * *

For the feisty dark-haired knight, the new day brought with it a different kind of dread. Dread of the agony it would bring, of the fresh beatings Gawain's actions might precipitate but, worst of all, the shame it would bring him to be brought so low. Even before that though, there was the slow and torturous awakening as Lancelot re-entered the world of the living, slowly acknowledging the pain which was worse than the beating itself. For a blissful second, the tiny crack between a dream world and reality, he believed himself to be in his own chambers at Hadrian's Wall. Then, the memories flooded over the young knight.

He recalled only too vividly how he had been frogmarched from the clearing to the only brick building amongst the other wattle and daub affairs. The reason for this extra reinforcement became clear immediately. There were no windows and the door was heavily barred with an iron girder set between two sturdy hooks on either side of the frame. One of the guards released his hold on Lancelot's upper arm, casting the knight a warning look. Lancelot knew better than to try and effect an escape. He would only be shot in the back or worse, the fate of a coward. Unferth might have a brain cell or two between his ears but these louts had shown no such traits. The Sarmation had heard many tales of the bloodthirsty Saxons but few featured men of ingenuity. Lancelot felt confident in his ability to outwit them after they had had their fun. He would simply have to wait for the opportunity, even if that meant enduring whatever torture they had in store for him.

The guard wedged his shoulder under the giant iron girder and, with a grunt of exertion, forced the bar up until it slid into a vertical position beside the door frame. Returning to his charge, the two men bundled Lancelot through the door. The knight had steeled himself for what they would do but the sight that met his eyes made him swallow, dryly.

There was a thin slit between the stones to resemble a window, less for the victim to enjoy daylight than for the Saxons to see what they were doing within. The stone walls still bore the marks of its previous occupants' fates. The earth was packed hard into the ground where countless feet had trampled it down, save a few places showing where someone's heels had dug in hard. Lancelot knew only too well why those marks were so deep. They were directly in line with heavy, iron shackles which hung from one wall.

Lancelot had already been stripped of his armour and he had allowed it. He had little choice, all things considered. However, as his two Saxon bodyguards moved to take his tunic and shirt, the young knight decided enough was enough. He fought tooth and nail but his protests went unheeded and he quickly found himself standing half naked in the gloom with a bruise already blossoming across his cheek where he had been slapped hard to stun him.

Still reeling from the sheer force of the blow, Lancelot was unprepared for his next assault as he was backed hard against the wall and swiftly shackled there. Finally, there was nothing more he could do but steel himself for the attack that would follow.

The Saxons did not speak or try and provoke the Sarmation into resisting them. They seemed to consider the job just another duty to be carried out before they could return to their ale. Clearly, Unferth had a greater hold over these men than any of the knights had realised.

Lancelot had been in many a tavern brawl but that had been the work of sluggish drunkards. Never had he encountered such precision and force behind each punch as every one found its mark. The fists flew first at his unprotected stomach and chest, gradually working their way up until Lancelot's face became the target. The knight's head reeled and blood flew from his mouth as the might of each Saxon fist swung his head from one side to another. He had prayed for the mercy of unconsciousness but it did not find him until the torment was almost at its end. Finally, his body gave relinquished itself to the darkness and Lancelot sagged in his chains, head lolling lifelessly against his shoulder, his flesh a battered patchwork of blood and bruises.

Now, finally awakening to the world anew, Lancelot had never experienced such agony. He was readily accustomed to the sharp, concentrated pain of blade wounds, many almost too deep to feel at first. The all-consuming, dull pain of a beating was worse than he had ever imagined. Not an inch of him was free from it. His hands were numb from carrying the weight of his body for several hours and his feet were blue with cold. The knight's eyes were swollen shut but, if he had been able to see, Lancelot would have perceived how his chest and abdomen were almost purple with the bruising and blood from his mouth had dried where his head had rested.

Lancelot attempted to lift his head and moaned at the searing pain which coursed through his brain, protesting against any movement whatsoever. He could almost feel his neck creaking with the sheer effort. His body felt like it was moving underwater, limbs moving slowly, heavy and unresponsive. Lancelot was only dimly aware through his haze of pain that he was hungry and thirsty. He tried to lick his cracked lips but tasted only blood.

Silently, his mouth moved in a motion of prayer but no sound came out. He could only wait and pray that Gawain did not put another foot wrong.

END OF PART 6


	7. A Time For Planning

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY 

By Allegra

Author's note: As usual, I have to apologize for the hugely long wait & I expect now most of you have your noses tucked in a copy of HP by now! As always, my eternal thanks has to go to Lisa foryour constant support (that's a kind word for it, though!). I know this is an inadequate chapter after the long wait but I thought since you'd put down J. K Rowling to see if I'd updated, I should get a move on! Thank you very much to everyone who has reviewed so far. I read them all several times & it makes a huge difference to the writing process to know you are out there & will (hopefully) read the next bit.

PART 7 : A TIME FOR PLANNING

The previous night had been clear, the stars burning with a harsh light in the firmament, managing even to pierce the thick canopy of leaves above Arthur's head. However, with the clarity came the cold and, although no natural weather phenomenon worried the Roman after so many years, in his weakened condition, it felt lethal. He had managed to keep his wits about him for as long as the Saxons were hunting him down. Hiding in the undergrowth, Arthur had succeeded in killing one of his pursuers with a quick thrust through the throat from behind while the other quickly stumbled upon his companion's fate and loitered near to the edge of the clearing. He waited just enough time for Unferth to consider it a thorough search before returning to the safety of his fold.

Since that time, Arthur's surge of adrenaline had begun to falter and the potent poison coursing through his arteries regained its hold upon him. He had stumbled without direction through the forest, his only conscious thought being that he had to find help for Lancelot and Gawain. Eventually, the feeling of extreme drunkenness gave way to strange hallucinations and sights. The trees seemed to come alive, long, black, bony fingers reaching for him and trying to draw him into their darkness. Arthur thought he saw friends and foes he had left in Rome long ago. They did not speak to him but they rose up out of the ether to block his path and the Roman was left waving his arms in protest against their advances. Yet they were mere ghosts and soon even they departed. Arthur did not even register as his body weakened and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless. The rain had let up only to be replaced with light flakes of snow which fell gently onto the commander's face and body and into his numb, open palm.

It was in this state that two men found him the next day whilst hunting wild boar, unaware of how close they walked to danger. There was scarcely an acre of woodland not claimed by the Emperor or some greedy lord but, what little there remained, was plundered readily by those outside their local lord's grace. Two such men were Peter and Benedict, known as Ben to all but his foes. Rumour had it they had stolen grain from the mill they worked at, earning them both the punishment of one arm to be shortened by the length of a hand. Since neither man considered himself guilty, the pair had fled to the wilderness before any penalty could be carried out.

Both were heartsore to be forsaken so cruelly by folk they considered to be comrades and neighbours and it had taken many a year to re-establish themselves in the southern reaches of the island. Even then, their sudden and mysterious arrival in the village of Cowfold still aroused suspicions. Without wives or children, single men were regarded with misgivings and skepticism. But, as with all gossip, it is quickly sated and new fodder replaces old for idles tongues. The fear and dread of Saxon plundering was thought imminent but, when the villagers were spared that end, they found a second cause to gripe in the shape of Saxons taking over the forest instead. The people feared for their families' safety but also their means to survive. Much sustenance was derived from the shady glades – berries, game, deer and countless medicinal remedies which would not take in the poor, exposed soil surrounding the village.

It was in this time of need that Peter and Ben saw a chance of redemption, enterprise, and even acceptance into the community. What they lacked in honour they made up for in courage and showed no fear in entering Saxon claimed territory. Taking orders from villagers as if they were off to market, the two men made regular excursions into the undergrowth in search of food. They had learned the art of stealth quickly and could kill deer by their scores in a good season, not to mention escape Saxon warriors deftly.

Today was proving to be a taxing affair, however. The orders from the village were numerous, not to mention obscure. Ben's spirits were on the wane. That is until he saw a flash of red in the brambles to his left. Moving closer to have a better look, he dared not hope it to be the redcurrants old Lowid had requested. The berries were barely in season and Ben had already prepared the old woman for ill news. Perhaps she would give him that quilt she had promised to make now, in recompense for his troubles. One step closer again made the man's heart sink once more. The red was too dark and, besides, it looked too…. Ben narrowed his eyes, barely believing what his eyes told him to be true. As he parted the brambles with callused fingers, he exhaled sharply. A man, a soldier, lay there, his eyes closed, lips pale and parted, an arrow embedded in his shoulder.

It was not uncommon to find dead souls in the undergrowth these days, victims of a surprise encounter with Saxon hoarders. Most, however, were village sorts with no riches about their person and certainly nothing to indicate their family's whereabouts. Ben knew instantly this man was different. He was fairly richly dressed and, more strangely, appeared to have escaped the indignity of being stripped of his wealth. A brooch still clasped the man's mantle around him and, even in his limited experience, Ben recognized it to be made of good metal.

He whistled a signature call to Peter, who appeared moments later, looking worn out and about as irritable as Ben had been mere minutes ago. "Look!" Ben beckoned Peter over and the two men examined the strange, unconscious man at their feet for some time.

Finally, Peter spoke. "Well, let's strip him and get out of here. The Saxons can't be far off." He crouched down beside the body and fiddled clumsily with the clasp of the brooch. Then, as if he had been prodded with a red hot poker, Peter jumped up, cursing loudly.

"Keep your voice down or you'll end up with a worse fate than this poor fellow!" Ben chided, his eyes darting fearfully around the small clearing they stood in. "I can't help it!" Peter replied, nervously. "I just wasn't expecting him to still be alive, that's all."

"Alive?" Ben repeated, peering down at the deathly pale face nestled in the sharp brambles. "He looks as dead as a skinned rabbit to me. Are you sure"  
"I could feel the rise of his chest and…I could swear I heard him moan." Peter stared accusingly at his friend, defying the label of 'liar' he knew would follow.

Ben lowered himself and ran rough fingers around the man's neck, pulling the mantle aside. "You can be sure by listening to his heart, it beats throughout the body." He leant his face close to the dead man's. "By the gods, I think you are right, Peter!" He waited a moment longer, just to be sure, and then sat up as if in thought. "We'd better move him out of here quickly."

"What are you talking about!" Peter demanded, incredulous. "Surely you cannot be suggesting that we take him with us? He is a dead weight, he will slow us down and most likely die on the return journey anyway. We should take what we can and leave him here for the crows."

Ben eyed his companion bitterly. "You never did have much heart, friend. Nor much brain, I warrant. Yes, we can make a few coins or buy a head of cattle with that there brooch of his. Or, better still, we can place him in our debt." Peter stared back, dumbfounded, so Ben continued. "Look at his attire. He is a Roman, an officer at my guess. If we can restore him to health, he will be indebted to us."

Finally, Peter saw the path this plan was taking. "And if he dies, we have lost nothing. We can still take his goods and perhaps even deliver him back to the Romans for a sanctified burial. Who knows, perhaps his comrades will give us recompense for our troubles." Ben nodded in agreement, a smile tugging at his usually downcast lips.

Lifting the unconscious man by his shoulders up into a sitting position, his head lolling forward onto the peasant's shoulder. Together, the men drew the Roman upwards and Peter helped lift him onto Ben's shoulder. The man staggered a little under the sudden dead weight but quickly found his footing and whispered, "Let's get out of here before we arouse any unwanted interest."

Moving as swiftly as their extra package would allow, the two men headed back to the village, only momentarily regretting the losses and anger they would suffer for not bringing back the promised goods for their fellows.

* * *

Tristan retraced his steps with ease, leading Galahad to the Saxon camp in half the time it would have taken if they had allowed Bors to accompany them. While the scout was ever taciturn, his companion had slowly quietened as the pair's journey progressed and, by the time they reached the camp, the young knight was silent as the grave. Tristan could feel the apprehension emanating from his friend.

Galahad was feeling a gnawing fear which was slowly growing. In the first instance, the disappearance and subsequent capture of Arthur and Lancelot had held an abstract sense of chivalry and the first steps towards their rescue had felt almost like an adventure. Now, the reality of the situation was dawning on him. Galahad had seen the horrific demises of many knights to Woads and Saxons. Many of these gruesome scenes still haunted his dreams in the darkest of dismal nights. As he recalled those nightmarish visions, Galahad could place new faces upon the old ones. Where old comrades-in-arms once were, now Gawain and Lancelot suffered. It sent shivers down his spine to think of the potential torture they might be experiencing at the hands of such savages.

Too soon, the trees had grown familiar and Tristan motioned for Galahad to crouch with him when the Saxon camp came into view. Galahad could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he obeyed the scout's command. Daylight was still struggling to pierce the leafy canopy above them and the dim, grey skies which foretold of rain, were a welcome cover for the two men. They could wait for another veil of darkness and a better opportunity for attack but their unspoken words bound them in a mutual fear for what another day might bring their beloved friends.

The camp had clearly been stirring for a while; the fresh, pungent smell of bacon wafting across the distance to bring Galahad's stomach rumbling to life, reminding him of how long it had been since he had last eaten. A fire was burning in the clearing and a small group of men were preparing a simple meal. To Tristan's relief, there did not appear to be a weapon among them. This boded well. Clearly, the Saxons felt secure and relaxed in this environment, certainly not anticipating an attack of any kind.

Beyond the camouflaging foliage, a wide, shallow stream divided the two knights from the camp. They would have to be careful crossing its width if they were to remain undetected. Tristan whispered, "We must wait for the right moment. Watch their movements until we are certain of their routine."

Galahad nodded, his head reeling with the grim possibilities Gawain and Lancelot may have faced. His head felt light and mist-filled, unable to focus himself on the imminent task at hand. This lack of control frightened him. He knew only too well what happened to those who let their minds stray in the fray. Yet, Galahad could not understand why he was feeling like this. How many times had he fought side by side with Gawain on the battlefield, their lives in equally as much peril as they were now? Never before had he been so preoccupied with his friend's safety. It blocked his vision, refusing to let coherent thoughts enter his mind. He bordered on blind panic and Galahad swallowed dryly, saliva barely coating his parched throat.

Tristan glanced at his friend, noting the minute change in demeanour. "Watch those trees," he commanded, pointing to some silver birch swaying gently in the morning breeze. "Concentrate on them, their sturdy, flexible trunks, the light leaves. Concentrate, Galahad."

"I cannot," Galahad declared, roughly, upset at his ineptitude. "Be strong, Galahad. This mission has no place for you otherwise. Gawain and Lancelot need your strength. Now concentrate. Will your mind to do your bidding." Tristan's dark gaze met Galahad's trembling blue eyes, unwavering and ruthless. Breathing deeply into the bottom of his lungs, the younger knight stared intently at the birches, noting their every movement, allowing his mind to free itself of cares and troubles. As in all things, Tristan was right in his advice. So lost was he in his meditation task that Galahad was unaware of new movement in the camp until Tristan touched his elbow lightly, bringing him back to reality.

Two Saxon soldiers who had been slumped outside one of the tents now stood up and pulled back the fabric door, stepping inside. For a moment, the two knights waited impatiently for some sign of who lay within. They wanted to see their foe, weigh up their chances against such a man. To their shock, it was not a Saxon lord who emerged from the tent but Gawain himself. Even Tristan could not contain his surprise. He had known better than to show it, but he had easily understood Galahad's fears for their friends. What fate could they possibly meet at the hands of Saxons, if not torture following by merciful death? Yet, here Gawain stood surrounded by Saxons, relatively unharmed. Galahad watched as Gawain squinted up at the dreary beams of daylight, which settled on his bruised face in a dappled glow. From his distance, the younger knight could see nothing of the damage done to his friend's head but it gave him and Tristan hope that the guards were keeping their distance from Gawain. They allowed him plenty of space as they accompanied him towards the banks of the river, barely a few yards from the knights' hiding place. Never had the saying been so adequately used – so near yet so far.

Gawain approached the banks and even offered a small smile of appreciation to the Saxon who handed him a rough piece of cloth for bathing with. The dishevelled knight knelt down in the mud and cupped a handful of water from, lightly brushing aside rotten leaves running through the flow. Finally, from such close quarters, Tristan and Galahad could clearly see the ripe bruise above Gawain's eye. It was probably a day old but showed evidence of quite a powerful blow. Galahad couldn't help feeling a moment's surging pride at his friend's courage in the face of so many Saxons but the sting of its humiliation still resonated with the young man. Gawain had suffered infinitely worse on the battlefield and he appeared to be in good health otherwise. Whatever altercation had taken place was evidently resolved because the Saxons were not treating him as any common Roman soldier. Gawain must have struck some bargain to be kept in such good health. The tent was not an adequate prison for soldiers, let alone knights of renown and a prisoner could never expect the privilege of bathing after only a few days' capture.

Galahad felt the urge to make their presence known. There was a whistle all the knights shared, which closely resembled a bird, but the young knight could not be sure it would fool Saxons. They were as much people of the land as the Romans were and the last thing Galahad wanted was to attract the enemy's attention. As if reading his thoughts, Tristan turned a stern stare upon his friend and motioned with his hand to stay perfectly still.

A little hurt and somewhat annoyed at the way Tristan always took control of such situations, Galahad sat back in the bush to watch his friend. He knew Gawain's face almost as well as he knew his own and he had learned to recognise what each tensed muscle betrayed. The blonde knight's drawn features were a clear indication of the duress he was under and the fine line he walked between life and death. For a second, it flitted through Galahad's mind that Lancelot could be dead. Then, the young knight thought again. Gawain would die fighting for a fallen comrade rather than suffer the indignity of a fellow knight going unavenged.

Tristan's gaze shifted from Gawain to the slanting sunlight shafting down through the trees over the river. He plucked a small dagger from its bindings round his shin and rubbed the flat of the blade vigorously across his knee. Carefully eyeing the Saxons, he slipped his arm through the foliage of the bush until the blade caught the sunlight, flashing a bright beam across the river. Tristan tested it discreetly for a some time, ensuring he could control the direction of the light with skill. Then, Galahad watched mutely as the beam moved gently across the stream's current until it came to rest directly in front of Gawain.

The blonde knight was passing the damp cloth across his neck, looking to his onlookers like a man savouring the rare pleasures of cool cleanliness. To Galahad and Tristan, it was abundantly clear that Gawain was thinking, plotting as hard as he could. Tristan guided the captive sunlight up towards their friend's face but Gawain did not seem to notice, so intently was his brain focused on planning an escape. At first, he merely squinted in the sudden piercing beam and went back to washing. Only on the third attempt to gain his attention did Gawain look up in the direction of the light, irritation showing on his face. Oh, how quickly that irritation gave way to shock, bordering on disbelief. Then, as quickly as his recognition of his fellow knights came, Gawain's face became a mask of passivity once more.

The moment had been enough proof for Tristan and he slowly pulled his arm back in and turned to a beaming Galahad. They waited for Gawain to be led back to his tent before Galahad could not contain his next question. "Now what"  
"We wait," Tristan replied, bluntly.

Galahad frowned, tiring of his friend's cryptic responses. "Yes, I know that part. I meant what are we going to do next? Go back for the others or break Gawain free ourselves?"

"We still have no idea where Lancelot or Arthur are. They could be held here, they could be dead."

"And your point?" Galahad sighed.

"The camp is large and from the stench of what I expect they will call breakfast, there are no women among them. This is a warrior camp which means we will be grossly outnumbered. I, for one, do not wish to die in a futile fight." Tristan paused.

Taking advantage of the momentary silence, Galahad jumped in. "It is not a futile fight! It is a rescue mission. Besides, we have the element of surprise and, once we release Gawain, there will be at least five of us, perhaps even our whole party if Lancelot and Arthur are being held hostage, too. I say we return to the forest edge for Bors and Dagonet, then take the camp after nightfall, as the fools sleep."

Tristan said nothing and Galahad wondered if his idea was really being considered as a legitimate option. It clearly wasn't. "Your plan is fundamentally flawed, Galahad. It undermines our purpose here. We could slaughter a tentful, maybe more before the rest of the camp is roused but the Saxons have not risen to such menacing heights without brains and perseverance on their side. We have no idea where to even begin looking for Lancelot or Arthur amongst the buildings and, even then, we could be wasting our time searching for corpses. However, if we wait, we can strike at their very core"  
Galahad tried to hide his disappointment at being put down so hastily. He knew as the youngest of their company, he was easily dismissed as being naïve and therefore incapable of contributing anything of value to a conversation. He liked to think he was made of stronger stuff than that. It made the label all the worse for its verity. Tristan was right. Even as a full party, they would have to be supernatural to take down all the Saxons without detection. Acceding Tristan's authority, the young knight asked, "What do you mean, strike at their core?"

Tristan was sensitive enough to know that his words had cut Galahad but these were not times for hot-headed heroics. Galahad's heart might be in the right place but his emotions were clouding his judgement. Every word he uttered spoke of haste and aggression. The young man needed reminding of the importance of a meditated strike. Thus, he chose to ignore his friend's injured pride. "Did you see the way the Saxons were treating Gawain? They treated him with care, respect. He has struck some sort of bargain, whether to save his life or through some ingenious plan. He can give us what no other can, an inside view. Gawain can see how they co-ordinate their movements, whether there are other groups in the area and where they hide the stolen property."

"So, do we return to the others?" Galahad asked, uncertain how this particular plan included them at all until a further time.

"No, we wait for the cover of night and steal into Gawain's tent. We must decide on a way of coded communication and a plan of action. He may know what has befallen Arthur and Lancelot." Tristan clapped a sturdy hand on Galahad's shoulder, reminding the young man of their united front and, simultaneously, reassuring him that the plan was a wise one. Hunching down in the bush and pulling his cloak around him, Tristan settled back for the long haul and Galahad, taking his cue, searched for a good branch for whittling.

END OF PART 7

There will be lots of Lancelot angst in the next chapter. I've been building up to it!


	8. Lost & Found

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY 

By Allegra

Author's Note: As always, my most humble thanks to Lisa for the prodding, although I think the threats are getting a little out of hand. I might have to hire a 24/7 bodyguard! Please, please review! I'm on holiday at the mo so another chapter shouldn't be far off if you want it!

PART 8 : LOST AND FOUND

Bors was like a bear with a sore head. He had tried to be patient, he had even begun composing something resembling a poem for Venora. It was at this point in the day, just as his mumblings grew loud enough for Dagonet to hear, that he stood up with a bellow loud enough to wake the dead. "Curse this place! Curse Tristan and his...his plans!"

Dagonet momentarily considered ignoring his friend but knew better than to bait the angry bear. "What's the matter?"

"My sword's getting rusty sitting out here. We should be in the fray! We should be making sweet murder not verses."

"Verses? Is that what you were doing?" Dagonet enquired, innocently. "Can I hear it?" he smirked.

Bors shot him a look which would smite most down from a hundred yards, but not a long time companion such as Dagonet. "The day a warrior becomes a poet is the day he should be laid low for the worms. I've had enough. What are we waiting for anyway?"

"Our next orders."

"From who? The mighty Tristan! The man will probably get distracted by some foul, feathered creature and forget all about us out here."

"I hardly think that's likely," Dagonet replied, calmly. "Besides, they should be back soon."

"They'd better be," Bors puffed. "I'll have their hides if they've gone and taken all the sport and glory for themselves."

Dagonet could not help the smile which crossed his face. It was typical of Bors to consider the fame and potential reward for his exploits lagging behind his resentment for someone keeping him from the battlefield. In a lot of ways, the taciturn knight felt more like a father to the burly man than a comrade. Now it was going to be his job to amuse Bors for the better part of the afternoon and he sent a silent prayer to the winds that Galahad and Tristan might return with haste.

* * *

Peter had lost all feeling in his arms by the time he and Ben had made it back to their village. The load of carrying a Roman was burdensome in more ways than one. He fretted with every step, afraid that he made the wrong decision, that Saxons were on their tail, ready to tear them limb from limb. Worse still, no matter how hard he tried to compose the words in his head, Peter could not think of a convincing speech for the day that the Roman was returned to his own people. He could only hope the man would speak for his rescuers and ensure they received their recompense in full. 

This in turn brought new fears with it. Perhaps the Roman dragging behind him on Ben's cloak was already dead and they would have the unenviable task of burying him, bringing with them a whole host of suspicions from the village. It had taken them long enough to establish trust amongst their new neighbours. How easily it could be snatched away from them again, even when they were simply trying to do a good turn. Well, a good turn whilst making some enterprising profit.

As the village came into sight on the horizon and fragile wisps of cooking smoke could be seen rising from the rooftops, Peter felt his heart calm a little. They had made it this far without an axe being embedded in their backs and, as he glanced back at the Roman, he wondered if it was just his imagination that there was colour in the warrior's cheeks.

"Thank the gods!" Ben exclaimed, breathlessly, behind him. "I thought we'd never make it back. You'd better be right about this plan of yours, Peter."

"The hard part is over, my friend. We have carried him the distance. Very soon we will be back by the hearth with a strong mug of ale and this fellow wrapped up warm in bed." Peter smiled to himself and ignored Benedict's sceptical grunt.

"You make it sound so easy, but you are forgetting one small thing."

"What's that, Ben?" Peter asked, exasperated that his good mood could be so easily dispelled.

"That when the gods choose your moment to depart this world, there is little anyone can do to change it."

"Pish!" Peter exclaimed, bluntly. "Don't talk such rot. This man must have a strong constitution and the Fates on his side to live to such a ripe age in the service of Rome. I doubt he has enough digits on fingers and toes to count the number of battles he has lived to see to conclusion. Bringing him back to the land of the living will take little persuasion." Peter said no more, feeling quite convinced himself.

They finally made it over the brow of the hill and, for the first time since their arrival in the community, Peter felt a little relieved that their accommodation had been built outside the main village thoroughfare itself. It would not do his reputation any good to be seen marching past every villager with a half dead Roman dragging behind him.

Letting go of his burden for a moment, Peter pushed open the door to his hovel. Ben lifted the Roman over his shoulder and allowed one backward glance to make sure they had not been seen. He lay the limp body down on the small pallet against the back wall and stood back. The two men had not yet had an opportunity to examine their new charge properly until now and the realisation of what they had done was beginning to sink in.

"What do you suggest?" Ben asked, anxiously.

"Get a fire going to warm him. I'll start some broth." Peter moved towards a pile of potatoes he had traded for the week before and rooted around for some firm specimens while Ben set about organising kindling on the hearthstone.

"Peter? What about the villagers?"

"What about the villagers?" Peter retorted, his irritation growing at the constant stream of questions.

"Well, they are expecting the supplies we promised them. When they see smoke rising, they will come for them. We need to be prepared with an explanation."

"Isn't the Roman explanation enough?" Peter muttered. "Get that fire going." The two men worked in silence for some time but, with each passing minute, Peter grew more concerned about the procession of villagers who would land on his doorstep within the hour. Putting aside his knife and the potato he was peeling, he announced, "Fine. I shall head into the village and tell them we had a bad trip, something about Saxons crossing our path. Then I will go and call on Berys."

"Now is not the time for wooing, Peter! You can't leave me alone with this fellow. What if he dies on me, or wakes up and slaughters me in his confusion!" Ben's face was pale beneath his angry, indignant exterior.

"Rest assured, I am not going to woo Berys. I have some skill with herbs but, beyond a remedy for common agues, I am lost helping this man. If he is to survive, he will need a woman's touch, a woman's knowledge of cures."

"Can we trust her?" Ben asked.

"We have no choice," Peter acknowledged, his gaze wandering to the still form on the pallet. "I will return as quickly as I can. One word in Aelfric's ear and the whole village will know we have returned with nothing." Grabbing his staff from behind the door, Peter stepped out into the emerging drizzle and headed towards the line of thatched dwellings.

* * *

"I trust you slept well?" Unferth queried as Gawain was ushered into his tent. He looked the knight up and down, noting the cleaner yet still dishevelled appearance. "My daughter has nearly finished polishing your armour. You will have need of it soon. But, for now, we have time for talk." 

"I am a man of action, not words," Gawain replied, bluntly. He had barely slept a wink, even his exhaustion only allowing for an hour's sleep at most.

"Even so, perhaps you are hungry." Unferth's eyes darkened and Gawain could tell that he was already growing tired of the knight's resistance. It was obvious from the men he had already seen that Unferth lacked intelligent company. Given the Saxon's evident skills as commander of his rabble, Gawain's place in their midst must have provided him with a small hope for entertainment.

The blonde knight could not even contemplate eating when he knew that Lancelot must be starving. He had not seen where his friend had been taken to but, even in the dead of night, no moans could be heard and Gawain prayed that it would be proof of Lancelot's comfort, not of his death. Since Unferth's good grace would be easily won with some light conversation, Gawain decided to barter a little. "I could eat a horse, and a full belly always invites much talk. However, I could not think of eating until I know that my friend has also had his share."

Unferth's smile faltered for a moment and Gawain feared he had taken a step too far. Then again, the Saxon had everything to gain from acquiescing and little to gain from refusing. "These are my terms," Gawain confirmed. He would not eat until he knew Lancelot was well.

"Very well," came the reluctant reply. "I will see to it that he is fed. You understand, he cannot partake of our feast though. A meagre breakfast is all I will provide."

"That is all I ask. But, I do ask that I see him for myself. It will give me peace of mind...and then the day is ours for enjoying." Gawain tasted bitterness in his mouth to speak the words. Living a lie was so much harder than fighting.

Unferth baulked at this. "You realise you are in no position to give me ultimatums, knight. Your life hangs by a thread and I have the blade to severe it. Be careful you do not find yourself at the cliff's edge."

"I merely rely on your grace and mercy. I have submitted to you. You are without fear and I have everything to lose. Please." A little flattery melts even the hardest hearts, Gawain thought, as Unferth poured himself some water.

"Very well. There is some porridge over the fire outside. Here." Unferth handed Gawain a thick, stale trencher of bread for collecting the food in.

"Thank you," the knight replied, speaking the truth for the first time.

* * *

Peter had sought out Aelfric chopping wood in a nearby grove and could already hear the mutterings of neighbourly gossip as word spread of the failed expedition. Apart from a few stern faces, Peter was received with relief by the villagers. Some made signs to their gods in thanks for his safe delivery from the Saxons while others seemed to see him as some kind of portent of the terrors which might follow. 

Part of him enjoyed knowing that some folk actually cared about what happened to him while another wanted nothing more than an invisible path to Berys' door. It was common knowledge how much he cared for her and it was difficult enough to visit without all eyes being trained on him as well. Reaching her door, Peter's brain was filled with revisions of what he was going to tell her. With each step, the idea seemed more and more preposterous. Would she really risk the gossip of the village to accompany back to his home? Would she even believe him? Then there was the question of whether she could even save the Roman. After all, she was no more of a miracle worker than he was. Then, he would have drawn her into the messy business of disposing of a dead body who would probably need to be returned to his people as soon as possible.

"Damn you, Peter!" he said to himself out loud. He stopped several yards short of Berys' home. He was just turning to return the way he had come when a lilting voice called, "Peter? To what do I owe the honour?"

Silently grateful that she desired his presence, Peter turned with a winning smile stretched across his face. "The honour is all mine," and he bowed low before her with the gesture of removing his invisible hat.

Berys looked as beautiful as ever, a true child of the earth. Her long, brown hair held a gentle curl as if the wind could not resist touching it even on the calmest day. Her cheeks were rosy from a long day beside the hearth and her brown eyes shone with a mischievous glow. He could spend eternity staring and sighing at her beauty. She smoothed carrot stained hands over her broad hips and sidled down the path. As she reached him, Peter noticed the way Berys' sparkling eyes changed to worry. "What is it, Peter? You look strained."

"It is...nothing," Peter found himself saying, instantly regretting it. "Well, it is not nothing, it is just that..." He glanced round at the bustling village street behind them where people chattered and stared.

Berys smiled playfully. "My, how folk will talk!"

"It is not us they are staring at, Berys. It is me." He wrung his hands, unable to articulate a single coherent sentence to allay her fears.

"Come inside," Berys replied, clearly ruffled by the change in her suitor. She was accustomed to the carefree, reckless man who left posies at her door and fell off his donkey in an attempt to woo her. He was almost unrecognisable in the form of the man in front of her.

Once inside, she poured him a mug of strong ale and Peter soon settled, even managing a sincere smile and compliment about her dress. "What is ailing you, Peter? Tell me your troubles."

"Berys, if the truth be told, I need your help."

* * *

Gawain had fought for the right to have access to Lancelot but now, standing in front of his friend's prison, the knight felt strangely apprehensive. The Saxons seemed warier than they had been before, perhaps the prospect of two captive knights left alone together spoke too much of plots and schemes. Still, that was not his problem to deal with. He had Unferth's word and Gawain knew he was good for it. 

The heavy door swung open and Gawain stooped as he stepped inside. At first he could see nothing in the darkness. A sliver of light cast a sallow beam across the mud floor but not enough to see by. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "Lancelot?" The name came huskily to his lips. A small movement in the murky room gave him focus and Gawain began to make out the shape of a man hunched in the corner. "Lancelot, it's me."

"Gawain?" came the thin response.

Gawain moved closer and knelt in front of the huddled figure and proffered the trencher of porridge, which was accepted by a shaking hand. "You're shaking!" Gawain observed.

"Yes, well, given my state of undress and the weather, it's hardly surprising, is it?" came the pithy reply. If nothing else, the statement at least gave Gawain comfort that Lancelot's sense of humour was still fairly intact and his body probably relatively unharmed.

"Here," Gawain removed his cloak and leaned forwards to wrap it around Lancelot's shoulders. As his friend moved forward to receive it, a wan shade of daylight fell on him and Gawain gasped at what he saw. Lancelot's torso was almost entirely a darkening shade of purple and crimson. Even his neck was not spared. In places, blows had parted the skin and trickles of blood had dried against the knight's pale flesh. The shivering might have been mainly due to the cold but some must have stemmed from shock. "Good gods," Gawain whispered, incredulous.

"A fetching patchwork, eh?" Lancelot managed to muster. "Wait 'til you see my face. Finally, you'll get to be the pretty one." The humour was drenched in bitterness and, Gawain knew from their long years together, a little fear.

"Let me see," he asked, unwillingly. When Lancelot did not respond, Gawain reached out a hand in the direction of his friend's face and found the stubble of his chin. Drawing the injured knight forward, Gawain prayed his face did not show the revulsion he felt when he saw the wounds. Lancelot's smooth skin was little more than mottled bruises and cuts. Where swelling had already set in, his friend's face was distorted and his features did not look like his own. Beneath his hand, Gawain could feel the man's trembling. He repressed the gasp that mounted in his throat.

Never before had he seen such a sight. The battlefield yielded many horrors - limbs sliced off, arrows embedded in eye sockets and entrails bursting from bellies. Gawain thought nothing of seeing such injuries now but beatings were almost alien beyond a drunken punch thrown by a fellow soldier. What Lancelot had endured was torture he had never known before. Every inch of his body displayed proof of its pummelling and the accompanying pain. "Good gods, Lancelot. What have they done to you?"

"I didn't bother putting up a fight," Lancelot noted, hoping Gawain did not think less of him for getting so completely worked over. "Still, it will all heal...in time."

"And time is something we are short of," Gawain added, bitterly.

"What do you mean?" Lancelot wanted nothing more to be free but the one hope he had clung to in the darkness was that Gawain was engineering a plan that might save them both. He was damned if he was going to die as a punch bag for stinking Saxons.

"You should have gone along with my plan!" The blonde knight fumed, angry more at himself for being so helpless in this situation than at his injured companion.

"Well, I didn't. That's the end of it." Lancelot was growing somewhat touchy. He felt foolish laid so low in front of his friend. Worse still, it was becoming harder to mask the pain. All his muscles were stiffening with the swelling and, were it not for the numbing cold in his extremities, Lancelot could almost have welcomed unconsciousness. Unfortunately, a thorough bruising was unlikely to provide him with that respite.

Glancing towards the door, Gawain lowered his voice to a whisper. "I saw Tristan and Galahad this morning, by the river."

Lancelot's dark eyes burned with renewed hope. "Arthur?"

Gawain shook his head. "I do not know."

"What are they planning?" Lancelot urged.

"I don't know!" Gawain snapped back, instantly regretting his haste. Lancelot was in a much worse position than himself and it was sheer frustration speaking. Softening his voice, he continued. "I was guarded the whole time. They will find a way to communicate. It is Tristan, after all." Studying Lancelot's brutalised face, Gawain thought he had never looked so young and woeful, even beneath the toughened exterior. "I will make sure they come for you."

Lancelot opened his mouth in shock. "What about you?"

"I have a job to do here." As the other knight opened his mouth to speak, Gawain quickly continued, "You are nothing more than a hazard here. Besides, I don't want the worry of what will happen to you when I put a foot wrong."

"When?" Lancelot repeated, pointedly, a small smile making it's way to his swollen, cut lips. "I'm glad you see your own incompetence as clearly as we do."

Gawain smiled back, relieved to see a glimmer of his old companion beneath the battered veneer. Then he stood up abruptly, unable to endure the exchange any longer. "I do not know when I will be able to visit you again but I will do everything to ensure you are well looked after."

Lancelot watched his friend walk towards the door before calling out, "Gawain? Do me a favour. Don't get yourself in any trouble...for my sake." It was meant as a joke but it fell on solemn ears. The implications were all too vivid for both of them.

END OF PART 8


	9. The Fell Clutch Of Circumstance

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I managed a new chapter in less than a week! How do you like that! I'm trying really hard to keep up the momentum so please, please review if you've been reading it. Thank you!

PART 9 : THE FELL CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE

Arthur was floundering in the darkness, his mind trapped inside a floppy, defenceless body, but desperately trying to claw it's way out. But why? 'I must be free, I must help them' his brain told him over and over but Arthur was weak, helpless, paralysed. All around him was darkness, smothering and total with no hope or means to light the world again. Slowly it dawned on him that he felt completely detached from his corporeal body. A chill dread seeped into his soul, infecting him with a horror no battlefield had ever borne. He could not cut through this with a sword or beat it down into submission. This state could not be fought and won over. Arthur felt something akin to panic welling up inside him and he could almost still sense the racing of a heart he could no longer reach out and touch in his own breast.

Lost and alone in the penetrating blackness, Arthur found himself praying. At first, the words came to his mind in faltering, broken chords. How could he be sure it was not God himself who had put him here? A punishment for his past sins? For decisions wrongly made and lives lost in their wake? Would God hear the prayers or would he pay no heed, damning one of his children as lost to him. Arthur sought out the words to save himself, words of appeal but laced with wretchedness. He could not say how long he appealed to God or even what words he spoke. All Arthur knew was that, at some point, even his prayers left him. They no longer abated the emptiness which lay all around him, barren and bleak. His mind was no more than an island of isolation and desolation consumed the once great Roman warrior.

* * *

"He has a fever," Berys stated bluntly. Her small, callused hand, browned from much work under the sun, brushed across the Roman's forehead. Sweat lingered there in heavy beads, dampening his skin and hair. "You would do well to relieve him of his clothes," she added, looking disapprovingly at Peter and Ben. Still naïve in the ways of women, Ben's face flushed bright with the mention of disrobing and Berys felt a smile curl at the corners of her mouth.

"You may attend to that, gentlemen," she said, addressing them with mock formality, "while I prepare some broth which might ease his suffering." The two men remained standing uselessly in front of the door as if preparing to run at any moment. "Or perhaps you are waiting for a waning moon and faery folk to leave their cobweb bowers, unpick his robes and melt away his armour with a wand's touch!" Her voice was brimming with mirth but the two men saw nothing of humour in it, being the subject of ridicule themselves. Attempting to distance himself from the implications of this, Peter shoved Ben hard into action. "Get moving man!" he exclaimed. For a second longer, he stood with his eyes lingering upon Berys and the brightness of those brown eyes which returned his gaze with intensity and something he could not place. He wrung his hands unconsciously and the moment was broken when Berys' eyes moved to them. "Time is of the essence," she chided, but there was a softness in her voice, one which Peter hoped was reserved only for him.

Berys wanted nothing more than to hitch up her skirts a little to make her work easier. Her hands moved instinctively to do so before etiquette halted her. The company of two unattached men was not the sort a young, becoming woman familiarised herself with. Her skirts were already damp and sodden from the mud and it seemed her foot caught in the hem with every step she took. Cursing silently, Berys moved gracelessly across the floor to Peter's store cupboard. He was known throughout the village for his collection of herbs and strange foods. He seemed to have a fondness for the unusual and was ever adventurous in his choices at market, often travelling far and wide for the newest, most alien plants or spices. She rummaged deep in the store, brushing aside dried herbs hanging in thick thatches from the sloped ceiling.

"Can I help you in your search, madam?" Peter's voice caught Berys unawares from behind. She was grateful that he had chosen to maintain the formality with which she had addressed him. It was one thing to enjoy playful banter on the street but, in the cloistered privacy of his home, she felt uncomfortable. From Peter's tone, he felt the same.

She wriggled backwards through the boxes and jars on her hands and knees, suddenly painfully aware of the ungainly position she was in. Her posterior was lifted high in the air, wiggling in a most unbecoming and somewhat lewd fashion. If Peter had been watching, he made no show of it. By the time Berys had found her feet once more, his eyes were appropriately averted.

Berys brushed loose strands of hair away from her face in an effort to regain some decorum but she could feel a crimson flush rising in her cheeks. "That would be a great service. Thank you. I am in need of some belladonna or the bark of the apple tree, perhaps some chamomile if you can spare it." She gave Peter a moment's glance and strode across the room to where a pot of hot water was beginning to bubble over the heat of the fire.

"Belladonna!" Peter exclaimed. "Madam, I have no wish to interfere but…"

"Then don't!" Berys was startled at her own curt response. She was still feeling violated by the disgraceful position he had just found her in and it was necessary to regain some regulation to the proceedings once more. Her shoulders sagged as she exhaled long and hard, noticing a faint trembling in the breath. Perhaps she had been a fool to respond to Peter's pleas for help. What was she thinking, coming alone to a single man's house that lay several hundred yards from the rest of the village?

Berys was relieved when she heard the rustling of dried herbs being moved aside and knew that Peter's eyes were no longer fixed on her back. She quickly busied herself with stoking the waning flames beneath the pot until he returned clutching an armful of pots and plants.

Peter placed them on the table and brought the jar of belladonna over to Berys as if it were some sacred relic to be delivered without harm from table to pot. "This is all I have. I hope it will do."

"It will be ample," Berys replied, shortly, then forced a smile to her lips in grateful acknowledgement when she saw him flinch against her hard tone. She did not mean to be cruel, it was only fear which drove her to keep him at a distance.

He opened his mouth to offer another unwelcome piece of advice but was saved the bother by the entrance of Ben. His arms were full of the Roman's clothes which consisted of more layers than any of them could have imagined. He deposited the woollen undergarments on a stool which he drew towards the fire. His eyes immediately lightened on the belladonna jar. "'Tis the demon herb! The enchanter's nightshade! Poison!" he exclaimed. His eyes, wide and bulging as saucers turned to Peter in expectation that he would share his views. Peter's face was grave but expressionless.

Ben turned to where Berys was already opening the jar. "Madam, if he is not mad already, it will send him so! This is the assassin of witches. You will kill him!"

Berys whirled on Ben, feeling angry at herself for putting herself in the company of two such fools. "If you do not trust my judgement then, by all means, care for him yourselves. I have plenty of work of my own to occupy my hours, instead of brewing potions for two such ingrates!"

Ben fell silent in an instant, cowering like a child under her spiteful reproach. Despite his years, he looked to Peter once more as if expecting some reassurance, but he found none. Peter jerked his head in the direction of the door. 'Too many cooks spoil the broth' came unbidden into his mind. Berys' voice sang out behind Ben as he opened the door, "Some carrots or legumes of any variety would be much appreciated." Her voice was steady but tight. Ben nodded wordlessly and closed the door firmly, leaving Peter and the lady alone.

Peter was not a soft man but he had come to care for his friend deeply over time and even Berys was not spared some reprimand for her behaviour. "Forgive Ben, madam, but he means well."

"I know it," Berys replied, quietly. "I do not know why I spoke so strictly. It was not my place."

"I think I may venture an estimate, madam. There is a foreign stranger close to death nearby, dependent on your kindness and skill. Such a burden is enough to worry even the sturdiest of physicians, let alone a woman brave enough to carry out such a task on her own."

Berys found herself surprised at his sensitivity to the situation. She had never thought Peter to be so. It warmed her heart towards him once more. "You are very astute, sir." She tipped a tiny portion of the belladonna into the boiling water and turned to return the jar to the table and found herself handed a large onion. "Here, this will give some flavour."

"A simple vegetable broth is ample. A tiny amount of the belladonna should bring down the fever, along with the chamomile and bark. I saw you have some sorrel. We may have need of it later." Berys stood back and held out the ladle to Peter. "When Ben returns, cut the vegetables as thin and small as you can and add them to the broth. They must be as soft as possible to go down his throat. I will attend to his wounds now."

Thoughtful as ever, she had set aside some boiling water to cool enough for washing the soldier's wounds. She had brought a short knife, plenty of candle wax and cobwebs, items she had watched her mother use for packing wounds in the past. Berys lifted the thin sack cloth dividing the main living area from the injured man and settled herself down beside the invalid.

He looked half the size he had upon his arrival and Berys wondered why she was surprised to find nothing more than a man beneath the armour. His eyes were closed, dark lashes laying a veil over inflamed skin. There was not a flicker of movement and Berys knew that wherever he was, it was nowhere near waking life. The woollen blanket covering him from the tips of his toes to the top of his chest was coarse against her skin as she lifted it away to get a closer look at the Roman's wound. The arrow had been ripped unceremoniously from the skin at some point and there was a significant and unsightly tear around the lower edge of the entry gash.

A small vial had been left beside the bed and Berys opened it, sniffing the clear, watery contents. Her nose wrinkled in unexpected dismay at the strong odour drawn up her nostrils. It was some sort of hops infusion and the smell alone almost sent the girl reeling. Still, it would make an excellent cleanser for the wound and Berys set about dabbing a little with the cloth around the inflamed flesh. Then, as she had seen her mother do after Saxon skirmishes, she poured a generous amount into the wound itself. She blotted any new trickles of blood issuing from the shoulder then pulled the cloth away for inspection. Amid the last traces of earth was a dark sludge which caught Berys' eye and made her frown. She prodded it with her finger. She had seen this before. Poison.

The Roman did not stir, completely oblivious to the gentle ministrations around him. Berys was relieved. She could still vividly recall the day her mother had sent her from the room when a man was brought, unconscious, his left arm severed and hanging by little more than a thread. The wound had need of cauterising and Berys was firmly instructed to leave the cottage and fetch cabbage leaves from the fields beyond. Stubborn even at the age of ten, Berys had nodded meekly but peered in through a small crack in the wattle walls. The man, bearded and sweating, had awoken at the first press of the poker against his arm socket and the screams had given Berys nightmares for many years to come.

Now, she peered into the wound, pressing lightly at the sides to gain a better view. Some of the inner flesh was torn but there was no sign of infection, dirt or poison now that it had been cleaned and there was little more to do now than sew him up. Berys threaded her needle and bent close to the Roman's face, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Had the task not been so consuming, she might have thought more of being so close to a Roman officer, or any man for that fact. Arthur's shallow breaths caught wisps of her hair and lifted them lightly as if in a summer breeze. Still, he did not stir and she did not move from her task until it was complete, each stitch as regular and small as befitted a man of office. Berys' work was over but Arthur's struggle through the darkness had only just begun.

* * *

Stars pricked the sky like diamonds, luring men to pluck them from the firmaments. Even between the shadowy trees above, they found a way to tease and bait the mortal men below. Two such mortal men, however, had no time or thought for stars and fanciful verses. They lay in wait as they had done for many hours, the time of action finally drawn near.

Galahad could set up a shop with all the whittling he had done over the hours but his patience was waning and it was not helped by Tristan's typical stillness. The man knew no bounds of suffering it seemed. He had sat on the same spot, in the same position for so long that Galahad could feel the pain in his joints just by looking at him.

Finally, the words so longed for, the young knight barely believed them to be true, Tristan murmured, "It is time." Moving round to his left, he led Galahad towards the rear of Gawain's lodging and the pair listened for voices.

Convinced the coast was clear, Tristan lifted a corner of the tent canvas and peered underneath. Gawain sat in the far corner of the room, his head bent with one palm resting against his forehead. He appeared clean and well kempt, his long blonde hair looking as fresh as it had done in months. The simple tunic and belt were not his own and, were it not for the bruise around one eye, Gawain would have looked like a wealthy lord enjoying a moment's peace. To friends such as Tristan and Galahad, the opposite was true.

"Gawain!" Galahad hissed from his hiding place. Gawain's head jerked upwards, narrow blue eyes widened in alarm, tension showing in every muscle and the cords of his neck. A quick smile came and faded from his lips, tightened in a thin line. "Are we safe?" Galahad asked. He had not expected a hugely warm welcome given the peril they were putting themselves in, but a little more pleasure at seeing his friends once more would not have gone amiss.

"Yes, but guards are posted at my door. You must be quiet." Gawain stood and moved as close to the rear of the tent as possible, to limit the noise level reaching the entrance. "Thank the gods you have come."

Tristan somehow managed to pull himself through the canvas opening with infinitely more grace than Galahad could ever muster, giving the latter cause for a prickle of annoyance. Instinctively, Galahad grasped Gawain's shoulders and pulled him into a manly embrace but Tristan only offered a strong smile. It was a simple gesture but it spoke volumes and gave Gawain a strange sense of security.

Wasting as few words as possible, Gawain tried to explain the situation – how Lancelot had dragged him into a fight and the bargain Unferth had struck. He paused at the next issue, trying to find the words to explain what still brought shame to his face.

"Where is Lancelot now?" Galahad asked.

Gawain's blue eyes surveyed the youthful face before him, reminded of the cruel joke Fate played upon all of them, snatching the years from Earth's children so callously. "Lancelot did not fare so well."

"What do you mean?" Tristan interjected when Gawain was not forthcoming.

"He refused to submit to Unferth's requests. I tried to plead with him but he would have none of it. In the end, the Saxon chose a different fate for him. Lancelot has been imprisoned as security for my loyalty. Should I try to escape or sabotage Unferth's plans, Lancelot will pay the price for it." Gawain shook his head, unable to look his friends' in the eyes when he thought of the damage his actions had already caused. "We are endangering his life this very moment with our talk."

Tristan spoke up, his voice no more than a whisper yet it reached Gawain's ears with ease, as if the words themselves were carried on the air in obedience. "They can be wily, these monsters from across the ice. You must not blame yourself. You did everything you could." Gawain nodded, feeling as uncomfortable about needing comforting words from a fellow knight as he did about Lancelot's predicament.

"What of Arthur? Bors said he stayed here at the camp. Did you see him?" Tristan tried to sound as casual as possible. Gawain was living dangerously and the needed his wits about him. It would not do for his mind to wander to the perils facing their leader when he was helpless to do anything about it.

"You have not found him?" Gawain asked, an edge of fear and panic entering his voice. "He was seen and pierced through with an arrow. I did not see what happened but I think he managed to break free into the forest. I had hope that he would have returned to you."

Galahad caught his fearful expression and asked, "How badly was he hurt?"

"It was a shoulder wound. Gods! If he did not return to you, mayhap the wound was greater than I thought." Gawain's stomach furled and unfurled with horror at this new possibility. He already felt responsible for Lancelot's injuries but now he had accepted Unferth's hospitality – food, clothes and lodging – when the man he most respected was possibly dead.

"We must find him!" Galahad exclaimed, urgently, and Tristan shot him a steely glance at the rise in his voice. There was too much yet to be said for them to be discovered. The young knight appeared suitably chastised but his fear for Arthur's life was greater.

None of this was going according to the plan he had formed in his head. Galahad had envisaged the gallant rescue of his two friends and some heart-pumping bloodletting amidst the Saxons before returning to the nearest tavern for a night of blissful, mead-induced oblivion. Instead, Arthur was unaccounted for, Lancelot locked up, Gawain blackmailed into Saxon service and his own long hours of waiting rendered pointless. The company was scattered, broken, and their strength diminished by it.

Tristan and Gawain remained silent but their eyes met in mutual recognition of Galahad's fear as well as their own. Did their minds utter the same dread? That this could be the first stumble in the fall of Arthur's knights?

"We will find him," Tristan promised, his steadfast belief giving the other two some degree of hope. "We will return for you and Lancelot in greater numbers. Bors and Dag wait at the forest edge for instruction. They will go for reinforcements. These Saxons are too strong for us alone and you need time to complete your induction into this man's schemes. Galahad and I will find Arthur, do not fear." Tristan's words were like a soothing balm to Gawain's pains. The scout was no more a god than any of them but there was some benevolent magic in him, settling the mind and giving a glimpse of safety ahead. He was like a sanctuary for all the knights in times of trouble.

Gawain could see that Tristan was preparing to leave and he could contain himself no longer. "Wait, there is more. You must release Lancelot as soon as possible." Both scout and knight waited for an explanation and Gawain found himself struggling to verbalise the vision of his cocky friend, reduced to a bloody, bruised and naked man, shivering in dank confinement. "They beat him." The words rasped from his mouth and he cleared his throat, repeating more loudly, "They beat him…for my disobedience." Reading the expressions on his companions' faces, he continued, "He will live, but if that is their punishment for my first misdemeanour, I dread to think what the second will bring."

Tristan nodded, mutely but with the steady determination that made Gawain trust him implicitly.

Tristan looked to Galahad, nodding his head in the direction of the tent opening. They had lingered long enough. Action was needed. Galahad seemed reluctant to follow and his mouth moved but no further words formed there. Gawain knew well enough the turmoil beneath those grey eyes. He reached out and put a firm hand on his best friend's shoulder. "It is all right, Galahad. Go. I will be fine."

Galahad searched Gawain's eyes for some deeper reservations but the grey depths were clouded and impenetrable, yielding no assurance and the young knight was forced to follow Tristan's path from the Saxon camp. His step was heavy for he was leaving the man he cared for most in the world in the arms of the enemy.

END OF PART 9


	10. Parting Words

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

Author's Note: I was tempted to hold this chapter back for a week or so in case my muse abandons me in the near future, but I felt too guilty! More very soon, I hope!

PART 10 : PARTING WORDS

By the time Galahad and Tristan made it back to where Bors and Dagonet had made camp for the night, their spirits were low. Instead of simplifying the situation with the release of even one of their comrades, there were now two injured and in potential danger. Galahad had remained silent for the duration of the journey and Tristan was beginning to grow concerned for him.

"You took your time!" Bors growled as the pair took their places beside the small fire. The rain had been good enough to hold back a downpour so far but the clouds were looking ominously full and watery.

Tristan declined to respond to that particular statement. There was so much to tell the others already without boring them with details of their long wait. "We managed to speak to Gawain. Lancelot is being held as collateral, well but in danger, Arthur has been shot in the shoulder and is missing. Gawain is being blackmailed to work for the Saxons. With his inside knowledge, we stand a better chance of thwarting these thieves."

Dagonet stabbed a piece of coney with his knife and brought it to his mouth. "Arthur must be our priority. With an injury he cannot have gone far. As soon as you have eaten, we should move out."

Tristan tore off a piece of meat for himself, noting that Galahad refrained from doing the same. The young man must have been terribly hungry; neither had eaten for many hours. It is true that they had experienced worse pangs in the past, but when the offer of food was in front of them, no one refused it. There would be time to offer Galahad words of encouragement. Now, they were in need of action. "Galahad and I will do that. You and Bors need to ride to the Wall for reinforcements."

"All the way up there and back! You've got to be joking!" roared Bors. "You go and we'll look for Arthur."

"You do not know the details of the story, my friend," Tristan continued, easily. "Besides, you have absolutely no skill at finding anyone or anything in those woods."

Dag laughed. "He would drive us round in circles until we dizzied the Saxons into submission! Bors, the point is well met. You would not recognise the signs of human life in the forests. Tristan has an uncanny awareness of each broken twig, footprint in the mud. You had better leave Arthur's rescue to him."

Bors grumbled to himself. He despised long rides without any action. Tristan knew this and added, "I have no knowledge of this region but you may have more luck pressing more local forces into assistance."

"It is a matter of how well recognised Arthur's feats are in these parts," Dagonet noted. "Consider it done, Tristan." He knew Bors would mutter and rage for the entire duration of the journey and Tristan needed a clear answer now.

The scout chewed slowly on the rich meat before continuing. "By the time you return, Gawain will hopefully have gained much insight into the Saxon plans. We will rescue Lancelot and find Arthur in time to lead the soldiers when you return." The reassurance was much needed and its promise read clearly on Dagonet and Bors' faces. Galahad, however, remained impassive.

Bors ate a large hunk of rabbit meat, packing it into his mouth like there would be no tomorrow. "Well, if you're going to make us ride our horses into the ground, we might as well get started, eh, Dag?" He shoved in another bladeful of meat before pushing himself to his feet and wandering away to check his horse. The annoyance in Bors' voice was only too tangible to Dagonet but he was well used to it and knew that the burly knight would be of great use in rallying support for their cause. He had a way of embarrassing men into service by his sheer manliness. They were reminded of what a man should be and how inadequate they were without a sword in their hands.

Dagonet finished his own meal and rolled up his pack. "Good luck. May the gods go with you."

"And with you," Tristan managed.

"Farewell, Galahad," Dagonet attempted to get some kind of response from his young friend.

The curly-haired knight's eyes, which had been transfixed on the fire, flickered and moved to rest on Dagonet's face. "Good luck, Dag." Dagonet heard the melancholy tone in his voice and exchanged a knowing look with Tristan, who nodded curtly. He would handle this with as much grace and sensitivity as befitted him.

* * *

Berys had sat with the Roman for hours now, the warm light of dusk bleeding into the rising shades of impending night. As expected, the fever had taken hold, digging fiery talons into pale, shivering flesh and causing tremors to course through the man's body. It was as well that his constitution was strong for it was fighting the poison that had already worked it's way into him. There were many who would not survive the heat and toxin, Berys knew. Peter and Ben had been busy for much of the afternoon with preparations for broths, poultices and compresses. 

She wrung the cloth from cold water as she had done only moments ago, the fabric already hot from the Roman's feverish skin. She lifted one of his hands, heavy and limp in her own. It was rough and callused but the fingers were long with almond shaped nails, not the square, stumpy digits of her family and friends. Even the knuckle bones spoke something of nobility, of grace and decorum. One nail was blackened with bruising and the silver thread of a scar passed across his palm. Berys moved the cloth up and down the length of the man's arm, unconsciously noting the gentle slopes and grooves of toned muscle from shoulder to wrist.

Her eyes flitted to his face, angular but attractive still, even beneath the gathering sweat and bramble scrapes. His wavy, dark hair had seen better grooming but his cheeks were high and his nose straight. Although his lips were not large, they were full enough and parted to reveal good teeth beneath. Peter had been right to bring him in. It wrenched at the girl's heart to think of one such as this left out in the gloom for the finishing.

Somehow, it soothed Berys' mind to sit here and tend to this stranger. The silence gave her peace, the good deed quietened her restless conscience. It brought to mind the day she wandered too far from home and had found herself completely lost. She had not felt fear or concern for her frightened parents. The tug of the wilderness had lured her away from the noisy, smelly bustle of real life. It was like entering a dream. Nothing could hurt her or direct her. She was independent, free. That is how this moment appeared to her now, as a beautiful dream.

So rapt was she, that Berys failed to notice the Roman's eyes slide open, still bright and glazed with the throes of fever. She had been busying herself with preparing another cool cloth and when she looked back, those eyes stared back at her. They shone moss green and held no question or fear, no malice, just innocent curiosity. His pupils were large in the darkness of the room and they penetrated her. "Everything is well. You are safe. Go back to sleep."

Instinctively, Berys placed a placating hand on his forehead, smoothing back damp curls of hair. His eyes followed her movements, unwilling to surrender to sleep, before fluttering closed once more. "Rest," she heard herself whisper, more for her own benefit than his.

The candle flickered in a draught and went out but Berys did not have the energy to relight it. Gently resting her head on the side of the hard bed frame, she allowed her eyes to close and deep sleep to claim her.

* * *

The firelight was on the wane and Tristan prodded it gently into action with the tip of his sword, sending sparks flying up into the night sky. He had given Galahad his due time for brooding but that time must now end. As the youngest of the knights, he was often treated with more fatherly indulgence, even when he did not care for it. In response, Galahad was prone to behaving like the youngest, allowing others to carry the burden of full responsibility while he fell in line behind without question. If they were to find Arthur, the two men needed to work together, each pulling his own weight. 

Never one for courting aggression, Tristan went in softly. "What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing," came the short reply.

"Well, you have eaten nothing since Dagonet and Bors left. In my experience, the only thing to turn a hungry man away from his food is a gloomy thought." Tristan surveyed the drawn face. "You might find a problem shared is a problem halved." Galahad looked up, his mouth contorted into an ugly sham of a smile, as if he could barely believe Tristan had actually said the words. But his words belied him and the scout continued. "Fine. I will tell you my thoughts. I am planning the best place to begin searching for Arthur, the herbs I will have to collect en route if he is badly injured. I am choosing where to tie the horses so they will not be stolen or discovered by Saxons. Then, my mind turns to Lancelot's release." Tristan paused, allowing his words to sink in. "Now, let me hazard a guess at yours." He turned his face to the air, as if letting Galahad's words waft over to him. "Hmmm, you are wallowing in the knowledge that you have left Gawain in the clutches of the Saxons and a belief that Arthur is most likely dead with Lancelot not far from the same fate. These are helpful thoughts indeed."

Galahad threw the twig he had been toying with into the fire, the irritation Tristan had hoped for rising visibly. "Is it so wrong to be concerned for my friend's safety?"

"Don't you think we are all concerned? Why else would we be planning so carefully? You must put aside your emotions, Galahad, just as you do on the battlefield. There will be time enough for mourning should that day come. Do not resign our comrades to a fate which has not yet befallen them."

As ever, Tristan's words rang true and Galahad felt it but it was still hard to swallow his pride and return to normal. As if in direct response to this, Tristan stood up. "I am going to see to the horses, then we should get some sleep. There is much to be done in the morrow."

* * *

Gawain was awakened to the same routine he had experienced the day before – two mute Saxons with a fresh cloth for him to bathe. They led him down to the river's edge where he savoured the sensation of fresh, icy water against his skin. Nonetheless, the consideration of the Saxons made Gawain uneasy. He knew better than to be lulled into a false sense of security, only to weaken his resolve and dull his mind to the true events unfolding here. 

He allowed himself to be escorted back to his tent where he was faintly surprised to discover Unferth's daughter, Aedre, standing uncertainly beside his straw bed. Her fingers knotted and unknotted nervously in front of him but her smile twitched away from her lips as if she were standing before a deadly enemy. Gawain had bedded his fair share of women and knew well how to woo them gently and offered her a warm smile in response. "Mistress," he acknowledged. "To what do I owe this unexpected honour?"

"My father bid me come to you…" Aedre faltered, the tremor in her voice clearly audible to Gawain's ears. She was more than afraid, she was terrified. What had Unferth told her to strike such horror in one so young? And what was he thinking, sending his daughter unescorted into a man's private chambers, least of all a prisoner's? It made no sense and Gawain imagined this must be where the line between civilised behaviour and savagery must begin to be drawn. For, uncouth as they could be, all his fellow knights would know better than to allow a maiden to suffer such an indignity outside of a tavern.

Then it hit Gawain like a boulder and, where lust should have been, he felt only dismay. Surely Unferth was not offering a prisoner his daughter? To be bedded like a common wench? It made no sense. She was the daughter of a chief, a pretty young thing who would make a good match with a neighbouring tribe leader or some such arrangement. To defile her and degrade her so was beyond Gawain's comprehension and he found himself lost for words before her. "Aedre…" he began, his own voice sounding distant and alien.

Before he could find the vocabulary to continue, Aedre quickly added, "He bids me help you don your armour. You will have need of it today." Her green eyes blinked at him, looking like a deer surrounded by a pack of wolves.

Gawain could not disguise his heavy breath of relief and he closed his eyes in momentary thanks that the awkwardness of the moment had passed. Then, a low chuckle issued from his throat. How stupid could he be, to think Unferth would give up his daughter to a Sarmatian knight! Rather than appearing bemused, Aedre seemed to have taken in the whole situation clearly and cleared her throat quietly. "Here." She took a step forward, holding out Gawain's polished armour.

He had never seen it shine with such brilliance in the all the years he had owned it. The Sarmatian race had been noted for having beautiful armour, beyond the artistry of many armies. Gawain had been taken from his family too young to be endowed with such a gift and was left with whatever offering the Romans chose to give him. As a youth, the uniform had hung off his lean frame but he had been refused a smaller chest armour, known as the lorica segmentata. Now, he was grateful for that, since his body had filled out with heavy muscle over the years. "Thank you," Gawain replied, allowing her to settle the contoured metal over his chest. Aedre worked quietly, working the leather tabs through the buckles with delicate fingers. These were not the fingers of a girl accustomed to heavy work and Gawain could not help wondering what she was doing here, amidst a war party, the only woman as far as he could tell.

"If my lady would permit it, can I ask what you are doing here? In Britain, a woman alone?" He felt her fingers paused on a buckle as if she had expected this dressing session to have continued in silence. Gawain could feel the lightness of her breath on his neck.

The silence lingered between them for a moment, as if Aedre were weighing up how much information to tell this stranger. "My mother died a year ago, little more than a month before my father's campaign. It had always been his wish to bring me here and it was only my mother's resistance which prevented him."

"I would not think this the place for a young woman," Gawain noted, mentally adding that a woman would only get in the way during a campaign. "Why did he want you here?"

"To establish his bloodline here," Aedre's voice rose in surprise, as if he were a fool for not realising that. "He thought if he could conquer a region of this land, I would be wed to a man of status and he would maintain a hold in those parts when battle took him from there."

Gawain nodded. He would have offered some words of reassurance but there was nothing in Aedre's voice to show she was unhappy with this arrangement. If anything, there was a note of pride in her voice and Gawain found himself respecting it rather than pitying it. "You sound agreeable to such a pact."

"All women are wed for convenience, sir, but to be the first Saxon lady of Britain? That would be a landmark indeed. I would be honoured to be so remembered." Aedre moved to find the greaves she had so meticulously polished and greased. Gawain had never liked the feeling of plates next to his legs but he thought it better to keep silent.

Aedre knelt down in front of the strange man, keeping her head bowed to her work. She could feel her heart beating in double time and wondered how he could be having such an effect on her. Aedre had been in the company of attractive Saxon men on many occasions and had maintained her dignity and aloofness with ease. Yet, there was something in the intensity of this man, in his manly grace that caught her affection. He had a little of the Saxon about him, with long dark blonde hair hanging in tousled waves down his back and a few plaits peeking through. She had not looked at him long enough to see the true colour of his eyes but Aedre imagined they were light. All the long hours she had spent in cleaning his armour, her mind had been filled with thoughts of him alone. With every application of grease, she saw his face reflected there and heard his voice gentle in her ear.

Now, alone with him, kneeling at his feet in a mock gesture of supplication, Aedre felt a chaos of emotions. Excitement, that his attention was fixed on her alone. Fear, that she would be unable to hide that excitement from him. Pleasure, that he was in her grasp and that she was dressing him for battle as she had seen her mother do for her father on many an occasion. In a fantasy world she knew she would never know, this man could be her husband and she would be his loving wife, the Saxon princess and the chivalrous knight from childhood legend. What a picture they would paint!

Aedre raised her eyes to meet Gawain's and blushed as he stared down at her, his curiosity barely disguised. She smiled, this time almost unable to hold it in the realms of decorum. She fought a nervous giggle threatening to burst from her throat and gracefully lifted her skirt to stand. Gawain instinctively held out his hand to help her up. The skin felt coarse beneath her own but strong and dependable. She silently prayed this would not be the extent of their relationship.

Gawain was not oblivious to the tension between them and his discomfort was only growing. In his thirteen years of service to Rome, he had rarely been in the company of a true lady. Ironic that it should be in a Saxon warrior camp that he would be forced to cut his teeth on one as beautiful as this. Going against every instinct in his body, Gawain heard himself dismissing her. "Thank you. You have been of great service. I can finish this alone and would not wish to keep you any longer." He smiled, hoping it did not appear too wolfish.

Aedre's own smile faltered and her eyes locked with his for an endless moment. Then she bowed her head meekly, "As you wish. My father would speak with you when you are ready."

Gawain could see the hurt at his rejection in her eyes but was helpless to do anything about it. He could not tell her the truth, it would only make matters worse for them both. Besides, he would be a fool to believe the tension between them arose from anything more than the chasm of difference between their two worlds. What would she want from a Sarmatian knight such as he? He was nothing more than leverage for Unferth and Aedre was his daughter.

He noticed that Unferth had denied him the return of his sword and trademark axe. A sensible man. Straightening the empty scabbard on his belt, Gawain puffed out a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. In the darkness beneath his lids, he begged for the skill to keep himself and Lancelot alive to see another day. For whatever Unferth had planned, today it would come into effect.

* * *

Unferth sat alone in his tent, an early meal fit for a king set out before him. He knew some of his men would go without on account of his own lavish selection but so be it. If they could not survive without a morning meal, they were not man enough for his army. He stroked his beard with one finger, slate-like eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance. He had much to think upon. 

This knight was of great use to him and his cause. Unferth enjoyed the power he could wield over one such as Gawain, but there was something more. If he had understood the emotion, the Saxon might have identified a little fear in his heart. Gawain was no fool and his co-operation hung by a thread, by his care for the curly-haired knight, Lancelot. Unferth understood nothing of filial love. His life had held ambition, competition and glory since the day he was young enough to wield a wooden sword in combat. Despite having three brothers, Unferth had never known love for them. They were nothing more than wolves, waiting for their older sibling to set a foot wrong and tumble down to be trodden beneath their feet. Only in the form of a wife had he understood true love, the way it could wrench his heart from his chest, manipulate his every thought and make him a fool among men. Unferth hoped that a love such as this, even half as dilute, would drive Gawain to do his bidding.

The cold grey eyes narrowed as an image of two knights entering Gawain's tent came into mind. The blonde knight had taken him for a fool and Unferth did not suffer fools gladly. He would see that Gawain knew the price Lancelot paid for such audacity, and he would see to it before the sun set this day.

END OF PART 10


	11. Half A League Forwards, Two Leagues Back

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY 

By Allegra

Author's Note: Hey, I don't have one! I should probably thank my muse 'cause he/she is being kind to me right now. Be warned, things are going to get grisly quite soon. Lisa, I hope this means you've put those bamboo shoots away!

A big thank you to Kal's Gal, kar-chan (I forgot about that little Roman/Sarmatian thing myself, so I put something in about it in this part!) and Lilyofthevalley4 (Would I be giving much away if I said there's going to be a big violence warning at the beginning of the next chapter?) for your reviews. I'm really glad you're enjoying it & especially happy that you took the time to review for me. You're the kindest people!

PART 11: HALF A LEAGUE FORWARD, TWO LEAGUES BACK

Arthur was dreaming. Fields of fire with flames licking the skies like banners, forcing his horse to rear and baulk at the encroaching heat. In the distance, through the rippling transparency of the air, Arthur could see men fighting. Blood and sweat mingled as blow met blow and weapons clashed loudly. Arthur could not go to meet them. He was separated by the fire, unable to leap over the towering inferno. The Roman clutched his beloved sword in one hand, knuckles whitening as they tightened over the sturdy hilt. Somewhere within his heart, he knew this to be his fight and that half the men beyond his grasp were risking their lives because of him, for him.

He reigned his stallion in once again as fire licked at its face and the animal whinnied in protest, churning the burnt grass up with its hooves. Arthur narrowed his eyes as he looked across the field, trying to gain a better view of the scene unfolding there. He recognised the men out there, the way they fought as familiar to him as his own strategies. Yet, Arthur struggled to recall their names, hearing syllables form on his tongue before dying away unfinished. Panic began to rise in his chest.

Those warriors were his friends, no, more than that. They were his family. The heat of the fire burned his eyes, making them water and the fighting figures beyond whirl in a ill-defined haze. Arthur blinked but the scene was growing fainter, even as he struggled to remember the names he knew were ingrained in his brain. The clouds grew stormy overhead, obliterating the sun and casting ominous shadows across the scorched plains. Arthur heard himself cry out against the blackness and, in that moment, he thought he saw a comrade's face turn towards him. His eyes were pleading and pained. Then, there was nothing but blistering heat, all consuming in the empty, blinding night.

* * *

"No!" The voice was desperate, choked with sorrow and fear and it startled Berys from her sleep. The strange Roman was sitting bolt upright in bed, his green eyes wide and full of terror. Sweat poured down his face and the thin undergarments were already damp.

His eyes were fixed on the wall opposite and his breath came in ragged gasps. Berys felt her own heart thumping fiercely in her chest at this sudden reaction but tried to steady herself. She gently pushed her hands against his chest and shoulders, trying to force him back onto the pallet. "Sssh! You still have a fever. Lie back."

The man started at her touch and his fevered eyes stared at her with incomprehension. His breath came in short, shallow gasps and he resisted her strength for a moment. Berys continued, insistently. "You have been asleep for many hours and are weak. You need to rest." He continued to stare at her even as he lay back.

Berys had been expecting, even hoping, that he would sleep, but he was alert now. "Where am I?" he asked, quietly.

"You are safe in the village of Cowfold. You were found in the woods, pierced through the shoulder by an arrow." She looked for an indication that he recalled anything of the incident. "Do you remember what happened?"

The Roman's brow furrowed in concentration, but after a moment he shook his head. "No, but I…" he began.

"What is it?"

"There is something more. I know I should be somewhere, that there is something I should be doing now." He fell silent for a moment, his mind lost in thought. "I cannot stay here," he announced, levering himself up on his elbows.

"You are in no state to leave here yet," Berys said, firmly. "You need to eat and get well."

The stranger shook his head. "Why can I not remember!" There was anger as well as anxiety in his voice and Berys offered him a cup of water, trying to calm him.

"My name is Berys. Do you know your name?"

The green eyes searched her face again before turning away. "No." His mouth worked but no more sound came out.

"Do not push yourself. The arrow in your shoulder was poisoned. Together with your weakness and loss of blood, a little lapse in memory is perhaps to be expected." She was grateful that she sounded so convinced, for Berys was no more knowledgeable in such things than Peter or Ben. "You are a Roman. Your clothes indicate that you are a man of status, a fighter." Arthur did not respond, but sipped the water slowly. Berys stood up, dragging back stray strands of hair from her face. "I will see to some broth for you. Then, as soon as you are well enough to find your feet, we will take some horses out. A man such as yourself will surely not have gone unnoticed. Someone will recognise you and your memory will be restored to you."

Once again, the Roman said nothing. His face showed utter dejection and Berys could hardly blame him. It must be hard to watch your entire life slip through your fingers like so much sand. However, she was confident that all he needed was time to heal and the world he came from would return to him in vivid colour.

* * *

"Ah! What a striking figure you do make, my friend," Unferth declared as Gawain stepped into his tent. The blue eyes cast quickly over the food laid out there and the Saxon knew he must be hungry. "Please, sit down. Today is the day, Gawain, when you will prove your loyalty to me. There is much to be discussed before we set off."

Gawain nodded. The past few days had been leading up to this moment and yet he was filled with mounting apprehension. He should be grateful that plans were finally being set in motion but, simultaneously, the knight feared what he might be asked to do. There were many tasks he was willing to do for the greater good but some entered his mind which were beyond his ability as a knight. "Very well. I am ready to listen and learn."

He sat and took some cheese and chicken from the array of platters before him. Putting food to his mouth suddenly made Gawain realise that, although his stomach roiled with hunger, he had no appetite for eating. Still, Unferth's beady eyes watched his every move like a hawk and the knight had no wish to offend his host at such an important juncture.

Conversation began as always with discussion on the fairness of his sleep and the weather of the day ahead. Then, it frequently turned to talk of war. Gawain allowed Unferth to continue in his misguided belief that he was a Roman, even though he knew he had more in common with the Saxons themselves. It somehow made his part easier to play when the world was black and white. In this fight, he was as much a Roman as Arthur and it gave him a sense of pride and purpose to think he was doing all this for his Italian leader. He refused to be drawn into a mutual hate society for Romans this day.

Still, amid the usual banter, Gawain detected a change in Unferth. There was a sharpness where there might have been a smile the day before, an air of irritation where he usually found a reason to laugh. It was disconcerting and Gawain found his mind wandering repeatedly back to Tristan and Galahad's nocturnal visit. The blonde knight had complete trust in Tristan's stealth but perhaps not Galahad's. Was it possible that Unferth had seen them? Was it this that marked the change in his behaviour this morning? Gawain kept trying to concentrate on the words issuing from Unferth's mouth, but with every passing moment, his fear grew. He mumbled replies and answered in monosyllables, hoping them to be what the Saxon wanted to hear.

If Unferth had seen them, why had he not acted yet? This unsettled Gawain the most, for a pre-meditated, measured attack was likely to do infinitely more harm than an immediate, impassioned one. Gawain swallowed dryly, taking another sip of mead. It did not take long in the presence of Unferth to realise the danger he posed. There was a thirst for blood, a yearning behind his eyes which told of torture and horror beyond the knight's imagining. Then a sudden thought hit him like a mace in his chest and, for a moment, his very breath strangled in his throat. Lancelot.

Whatever Unferth had seen would have no direct impact on Gawain whatsoever. It was Lancelot who would suffer unimaginable pain for his friend's error. The prospect blanched the blonde knight's skin and, even as he tried to focus on Unferth's animated face opposite him, all Gawain knew was the thunder of blood in his head and his heart all but beating out of his chest. Was Lancelot lying dead at this very moment?

"Gawain? Are you well? You look as if you have seen a nether spirit." Unferth's voice was light, tinged with concern, but more with suspicion. It did nothing to allay Gawain's fears. On the contrary, it were as if the Saxon were toying with him. The cold, slate eyes bore into him like a scholar watching an insect struggle beneath the pin piercing its body.

"Yes," he replied, a little to quickly. "The plum was quite tart," he added weakly and Unferth looked none too convinced either.

"It is growing late and it is time we spoke of business now."

"Very well," Gawain replied, feeling as if his voice were not his own. Then, another thought struck him. Unferth's annoyance might stem for a very different source. Had Tristan and Galahad not promised to do their best to free Lancelot from his prison? That would give Unferth even more reason to be angered because, secretly, he must have enjoyed torturing Lancelot. That would also explain his inaction now. Relief washed through the knight as all the pieces of the puzzle fell together in perfect synchronisation. That must be it. Lancelot was free and Unferth would say nothing because he had lost his only bargaining chip.

Gawain considered testing the waters to find out how close he ran to the truth but thought better of it. Unferth was about to reveal the day's plan and the Sarmatian had no wish to disrupt it. He took another sip of mead and settled back in satisfaction. Now he could complete his mission unimpeded and without fear for his hot-headed friend's welfare.

"I have spies along the Stane road, spread out from the sea. Traders are coming. We have been creating a road block if you like to gain control of these parts." Unferth watched Gawain intently, gauging the other man's reaction.

"You mean starve out the people of the north? At the Wall?" Gawain nodded in understanding, pretending to be mildly impressed. "A good plan."

"Your Great Wall, Gawain. How do you feel about that?" Unferth smiled, flashing his rotten teeth with glee.

"I cannot pretend it gives me pleasure but neither can I deny it is a worthy plan. However, we could still arrange trade from the coasts in the north."

Unferth nodded, brightly. "That is true but such routes would take a long time to negotiate. You would lose half your men by then. I am convinced this is the way. Besides, the goods we are impounding consist of more than mere grain and food. We have weapons from Europe such as you have never seen. Swords take time to manufacture and you would have to wait long months for replenishments."

"And you wish me to help with this…relieving of goods as the traders pass?" Gawain asked. "Why me? Surely you have more than enough strong men to quell a few tradesmen?"

"On the contrary, you are very valuable to me. A Roman soldier, nay, a true knight, armed and carrying orders for defence of this land? You will make our task all the easier. Simply by presenting yourself with a few stern words, these men will bow to your authority. You see, word has already begun to spread of the dangers we pose. More wealthy traders are travelling with an entourage of hired thugs and I have lost more men than I care to lose again." Unferth's eyes once again roamed over the immobile face before him. "Your appearance will lessen the fear."

"I am to relieve the people of their goods and that is all?" Gawain asked, determined to extract a full job description from this man.

"There is more. We have on occasion intercepted Roman orders, issues from Rome herself. These men are instructed to guard the orders with their lives and, unfortunately, not all of them are as cowardly as I would like to believe. The orders have been burnt upon our approach, eaten, even smeared in their own blood as it emptied from their guts to smudge the ink beyond recognition." Unferth smiled at this last thought. "With you there, with your knightly papers and the power of the legendary Arthur behind you, such weaklings would never dare withhold these orders from you."

Gawain nodded once more. This was the exact plan Arthur had brought them here to stamp out and, here he was, joining in. Still, he had already gained a good insight into what the knights already knew to be true. Now he needed to see where the spoils were being kept and whether there were more Saxon groups carrying out similar enterprises elsewhere in the vicinity. "When do we leave?" he asked.

"Immediately!" Unferth grinned and stood up, shaking the table with his vehemence.

* * *

Galahad was in better spirits the next morning when he and Tristan set off to search for Arthur. Gawain had been of little help in directing their efforts and it was a thankless task when Arthur might well be wandering about with equal futility. Still, Tristan was a resourceful man and knew how to leave signs that Arthur would recognise but that, hopefully, would elude the Saxons. They searched for much of the day, occasionally having to take to the ground to avoid being seen. They approached a couple of villages but no one had heard or seen anything of a Roman officer. Every pair of eyes were fearful and apprehensive, bearing the fear of Saxon attack they all felt.

As the blood red sun flooded the sky with her dying breath, the two men had to admit defeat. Still, there was work to be done. They had decided to return to their starting point and prepare to move in another direction the next day. However, Galahad suggested they make the most of the cloak night time afforded them and see if they could free Lancelot.

Leaving the horses well concealed once more, they made the now familiar route back into the forest, taking care to tread a slightly different path to ensure they did not leave too obvious a track in their wake.

To their relief, the camp was quiet and sounds of relaxed chatter issued from various abodes. Fortunately, the Saxons had been here long enough to make shelters for themselves and no one was sleeping under the stars. That made the knights' mission that much easier. Galahad followed Tristan's lead, creeping through the undergrowth until they were within sight of the stone prison Gawain had described to them.

Two guards had been posted there and they leaned heavily against the walls, clearly trying to fight off sleep. Galahad could not help feeling their discomfort, remembering only too well the onerous task of being made night watch. It was perfect torture trying to keep awake when every inch of one's body begged for sleep and rest. Tristan gave a quick jerk of his head and Galahad knew what was expected of him.

Tristan had explained that they could not risk Gawain's life by killing the guards. They needed to look as if they had simply fallen asleep on watch and were wide awake by morning. The scout had scoured the ground during the day's travels for herbs which, concocted just so, would act as a potent sleeping drug. However, he had been disappointed and was forced to resort to more base methods. He had explained the strangulation process in grisly detail to Galahad and it had been enough to make the young knight's heart quell at the prospect.

Tristan had been firm. The Saxons must not have their lives extinguished for their meeting with Gawain would be discovered. The strangulation must be precise, resulting in a loss of consciousness which would return after a few hours in the fresh air of the night. Galahad knew he did not lack the strength for it but the fear of taking the act too far haunted him. If Gawain's death was on his hands, he would never be able to forgive himself. At the same time, it reminded him that Tristan had a strange approach to torture and death.

The scout was taciturn, like a part of the very earth they trod upon. He seemed to have respect for life in all its forms, whether it be a tree or insect, bird or horse. Yet, there was something lacking in his affection for human life beyond his own and that of those closest to him. Tristan had an aptitude for cruelty to his foes beyond the comprehension of all his fellow knights. It set him apart from the rest and was, perhaps, some of the reason for his isolated existence. Tonight only reaffirmed what Galahad had come to recognise in his friend, that he harboured secrets darker than any of them. No horror was too great for his eyes, no torture too horrific for his mind to imagine inflicting upon an enemy, whether Woad or Saxon.

As the two knights moved close to the guards and Tristan's strong hands folded tightly around one of their necks, Galahad felt a chill run through his blood. Tristan hissed at him when it became clear the other guard might draw attention to them both before Galahad had done his part. Quickly, the young knight gripped the man closest to him tightly round the throat, feeling hands instinctively scrabble at his vice-like arms. A gurgling issued from his throat but the Saxon's rough hands still held strength. It took all of Galahad's might to maintain his chokehold but, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the serene expression on Tristan's face, as if he were simply deep in thought. Gradually, the hands dropped limply to the Saxon's sides and Tristan gave the signal for them to stop.

Tristan leaned over one body and then the other, his fingers moving under the thick beards to find a sign of their still beating hearts. He nodded in approval and Galahad breathed a sigh of relief. Yet another obstacle had been overcome, but how many more would he pass before he stumbled? The pair propped the two men up in fairly convincing sitting positions before lifting the heavy beam barring the door.

There was no time to consider what they might find inside and that, perhaps, spared both men some thoughts they could do without. Peering into the gloom, Tristan made a low chucking sound, a sound he often used to alert the other knights when enemy hoards were near. There was no response and the two men moved further into the building. Unable to restrain himself, Galahad hissed Lancelot's name, but still there was no answer. Maybe Lancelot was unconscious or gagged and unable to respond, maybe his tongue had been cut out or worse. The youngest knight's brain tore through the potential scenarios before Tristan shook his head and beckoned him out of the building.

Leading Galahad back to the safety of the undergrowth, Tristan murmured, "He was not there."

"But where else would he be? Gawain said he was there." Galahad tried to hide the urgency in his voice. He just wanted one part of their plan to go accordingly.

Tristan put his finger to his lips. "He must be held somewhere else. We wait and watch. We will find him." The two men sat and watched and waited until the skirt of Dawn swept across the sky and they knew they could stay no longer. Lancelot was not there. He was no more within their grasp than Arthur. He was lost to them.

* * *

Lancelot had stowed some of Gawain's food offering for leaner times but found himself already sharing it with local wildlife and, with each bite, its mud flavour increased. Still, it was better than nothing and nothing seemed to be order of the day. No, make that order of the week.

In the day that had passed since his friend's visit, no one had so much as opened the door to his makeshift cell and were it not for a few chinks in the walls, Lancelot could easily have imagined the darkness his own blindness. The swelling on his face had been numb at first but that was gradually wearing off and utter, excruciating pain replaced it. Most of the cuts were healing on their own but the coldness cracked his skin and Lancelot winced with agony every time he had reason to move a limb, even a muscle. So, he tried to remain as still as possible until his body had done more healing. Unfortunately for him, such respite was not to be.

Late in the day, voices could be heard outside the prison, but one of them was a foreign tongue. From the sounds of it, none of the Saxons understood the man either and it was almost comical listening to the incoherent grunts. He wished he could see the gestures they were making to go with this puppet-like conversation. Then, the heavy beam was lifted and bright afternoon sunlight poured into the dark hole. Lancelot lifted his arms to shield his eyes from the onslaught and his breath hitched in his throat as all consuming fire ran through his body.

It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the alteration in light and, by the time Lancelot could look around him without blinking constantly, his two Saxon guards were standing in front of him, accompanied by two more burly men and a shadowy figure he could not see clearly. As if in response, the man stepped forward from where he was silhouetted against the door frame. Lancelot was surprised and a little unsettled by the apparition.

This man was no Saxon. His body was slight but every feature was long and lanky. His arms hung simian-like at his sides, seeming to stretch like shadows towards the floor as did his legs which were no thicker than a young willow branch. His face was paler than the waning moon as if it had never been turned to the sun in his three score years. The eyes were a shade of hazel and Lancelot imagined they should have been kindly if there was not an unnatural glint at their heart. His lips curled in something resembling a smile but the motion was unnatural, like a stiff simulation of a smile he had once seen.

Lancelot watched with barely concealed fascination as this foreign man stepped closer and one long jointed finger slid from within the folds of his cloak, like an alien appendage, in a sweeping gesture. The two Saxon guards heaved Lancelot up into a standing position and it was all the knight could do to keep from crying out. He had lain in one position since his beating and the strain on his swollen muscles was almost unbearable.

The stranger would have been about Lancelot's height were the knight not sagging between his captors. Instead, the man towered over him and the oddly sinuous arm slid out once more to touch his face and the dark-haired knight felt his body quiver at the oddly warm touch against his own freezing flesh. A flicker of a frown crossed the man's forehead and he made a soft clucking sound beneath his breath. The warm hand tracked down Lancelot's chest, pulling at the loose fabric of his tunic which had been restored to him after his beating. The bruises were still clearly visible and it Lancelot winced as the coarse material was tugged away from oozing cuts. Once again, the brow furrowed and the man glanced disapprovingly at the oafs holding his charge steady.

Even in his pain, Lancelot felt confused. Who was this man? He was a mysterious figure, gentle and oddly compelling, yet he simultaneously held an air of danger like some venomous spider waiting to pounce. Was he here to pull him out of his misery or to send him hurtling into an even greater hell? Lancelot dared not hope for the first. The man's hand rested momentarily on the charm Lancelot's sister had entrusted to him before he was ripped from his family on the plains of Sarmatia. It had been a blessed relief that the Saxons thought it unworthy of stealing and now, just seeing it, restored a little hope in the young knight. It was perturbing nonetheless the way the man's hands wandered over it, as if he understood its significance to Lancelot and would have it for himself.

Suddenly, the man spoke. His voice was low and soft, the sort which should be lost in the slightest rustle of the trees, yet seemed to carry like a clarion in battle. The tongue was alien to Lancelot, each syllable savoured with rounded delight. No one moved at his words for none understood him and the man was clearly tiring of this. He motioned with his hands for them to leave and the Saxons all but dragged Lancelot from the prison.

To his surprise, the knight was mounted on a horse and, although his body shrieked in protest, a determined spark had been reignited in Lancelot. Today was a new day with a new adventure and a new opportunity for escape. He only wished he could see Gawain for even a moment. Did his friend know where he was being taken? Was he even aware of what was happening here? Lancelot's brown eyes surveyed the camp for some sign of his fellow knight but was unsurprised when there was none. A couple of new Saxons fell in around him while the foreigner gracefully slipped into the saddle of his jet black steed, a fitting animal for one such as him. Ensuring Lancelot's hands were tied firmly to the saddle and his horse's reins grasped by one of the Saxons, the foreigner nudged his horse into action.

END OF PART 11


	12. Homes Of Silent Prayers

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY 

By Allegra

Author's Note: ---VIOLENCE AHEAD--- I should warn readers that there is a significant amount of violence from now on, some towards the end of this part. I have had a review in the past (for a different fandom) that my story content was sick as was I & all my readers! In my defence, the KA fandom has already proved to me that not many of you have an aversion to violence & even a bit of torture in the right circumstances. Also, these are Saxons. The film depicted them in bloodthirsty Technicolor & I am sticking to that. On a final note, if you want hurt/comfort, the bigger the hurt the better the comfort in my book! I've warned you & you proceed at your own peril – enough said!

PART 12: HOMES OF SILENT PRAYERS

The distance they had ridden was indeterminable to Lancelot who had spent the journey fighting back the aching pain all over his body. There were moments when it took all his energy just to stay in the saddle. The sky was still light when the group came to rest and they had left the dark dampness of the forests. Lancelot wondered when that had happened. The Saxons dragged him unceremoniously to the ground, not bothering to make the job easier by untying his hands. Lancelot blinked away the foggy haze of fatigue from his eyes in time to take a quick look at his surroundings.

The men were in the centre of a plain which stretched like moss coloured velvet into the distance. There were no signs of life, no villages or even a telltale sign of horses' hooves beside their own. Lancelot felt apprehensive. He had hoped the stranger was taking him to safety, but there was nothing to indicate this. As the Saxons turned him roughly, the knight noticed that there was indeed something rising out of the plains. It was a grassy mound, not unlike the mysterious burial sites which littered the landscape the south of the island. Lancelot frowned, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

He was escorted tightly towards the mound which was much bigger than the knight had realised once he neared it. The stranger led the way, his face hidden, but there was determination in his step. He knew where he was going. Lancelot wondered where on earth this little walk could lead them. The mound held no obvious opening and there was nothing in sight for them to walk to for miles around. Lancelot watched in surprise as the spindly man knelt down at the mound and began scrabbling at the grass, pulling back jagged squares of turf. At first the knight wondered if the man had taken leave of his senses but the earth quickly gave way to the sound of hollow wood. Planks were clearly visible and then a rope handle which the man pulled on. The cords in his neck tensed with the strain but he made no sound. Then, the hatch burst open and Lancelot could hear the sound of earth showering down the hole, several feet at least.

The man beckoned for the Saxons to follow and Lancelot took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever dark magic he might find down there. Who was this man? Was he going to heal him with crows' feet and the blood of spiders? Would he call on some dark goddess to restore the knight with promises of his eternal soul?

The shaft was narrow and, as one Saxon pushed him down the wooden ladder, Lancelot's body dragged loose earth from the walls. Squinting his eyes to avoid being blinded by mud, he forced his bruised limbs to make the descent. Once at the bottom, the Saxons followed, blocking out all daylight with their burly frames. Lancelot breathed in the warm, clammy air deeply. It had the quality that made one think there was not enough air to breathe with and he fought to steady his panic. He peered into the darkness, unable to see in any direction or where the strange man had gone. He reached one hand out to find a wall, his fingers touching small roots and stones. As he moved forwards, the knight could feel occasional timbers supporting the cave which gave him some relief. At least he would not be buried alive down here.

He could hear the heavy movements of the oafish Saxons behind him, clearly employed for their brawn and not their brains. Then, suddenly, the room was illuminated by a flaming torch held by the foreign stranger. Lancelot could see that the room was little more than an entrance area, no wider than the length of a man's body but long. It stretched ahead beyond the reach of the flames but Lancelot could see that it sloped at a sharp gradient further into the earth. The stranger beckoned the men on and one of the Saxons prodded Lancelot forward, more out of his own fear than any sense of guard duty.

The floor was hard packed earth for a while but, as the downward stretch became steeper, Lancelot could feel heavy stones beneath his feet, forming crude steps. He could feel sweat beading above his lip in the confined heat of the earth. The man moved swiftly ahead and it was all Lancelot could do to keep up, his aching limbs protesting with every step. Sometimes the stranger moved so fast, the knight was almost left in the dark once more. Occasionally, he passed timber door frames which gaped open into black holes too dark to see anything by. The place was vast and Lancelot was grateful that the path they were following was straightforward. If his escape depended on good direction, at least he would not have need of Tristan this time.

After some time, the tunnel came to an end and Lancelot found himself in a humble chamber but clearly the central hub of the place. The stranger went about lighting more torches in their holders, lined against the walls, until the room was bright with dancing orange flames.

The stranger motioned for the Saxons to take Lancelot to the pallet in the corner of the room where the knight noticed, with disappointment, that shackles were firmly embedded in wall timbers. The guards pushed him down and attached a heavy manacle to one of Lancelot's wrists, then the other. The metal was heavy but he was grateful for the comfort of his resting place at least.

The Saxons began to move towards the passage they had entered by and the foreign man handed them a torch to guide their way. He gesticulated vehemently at the same time, muttering fiercely in his peculiar tongue. The Saxons did not understand any better than Lancelot but, as the man's hand movements grew more refined, the knight realised with horror that he was telling the men to seal them in…underground. Lancelot prayed there was another way out and that he would get to see it soon.

Suddenly, the two Saxons changed from being his captors to his saviours and he watched, mutely, as his hope drifted down the passage with the diminishing light of their torch. Very soon, even their footsteps were muffled beyond human hearing and Lancelot could hear nothing more than the occasional crackle of torch oil and the thumping of his own heart.

He looked up, hoping his fear did not show. The stranger paid him no heed but bustled around like an old woman seeing to the dinner. He opened some of the ornate boxes stacked to one side. Their golden veneers glinted in the firelight but Lancelot could not believe them to be anything other than bronze, a popular choice. The man was evidently wealthy. He had good manners and held himself proudly while his possessions were clearly those of a nobleman. Lancelot watched as the stranger opened pouches and boxes, emptied vials and seeds into a pestle. The smell issuing from some of them was enough to make the knight grimace but did not appear to affect the stranger at all. Lancelot hoped none of this was heading his way. That would be torture enough.

The stranger mumbled incoherently to himself as he went about his work, occasionally pausing to grind the disgusting muck he was merrily generating. Finally, he reached for a jug filled with water and diluted the mix in a clay cup. Then, with an expression only to be interpreted as delight, he presented it to Lancelot.

Aside from feeling the urge to vomit, Lancelot was taken aback by the humble way in which it was offered. The joy on the man's face was unmistakable, somehow both childish and manic at the same time. Lancelot was not sure whether his death was upon him or some juvenile game by which he was expected to eat mud before laughing about the jest later. As he pondered the situation, the stranger's face was already altering as quickly as the clouds in a stiff wind. His happiness was clouded with annoyance at the knight's rebuff. Quick to avert the man's impending anger, Lancelot took the cup. After all, he was shackled several feet below ground, in the middle of nowhere. He was hardly in a state to argue the conditions of his captivity. Closing his nostrils to the pungent smell, Lancelot swilled the thick, viscous mixture in the cup and knocked it back, sending up a silent prayer for his safe recovery to whatever god might be listening.

* * *

Berys approached Peter's home with a heavy basket of food and drink for their invalid. The Roman sat in his usual spot, a bench set in front of the wall beside the front door. His face was turned towards the sun and he squinted at its brightness. For the past two days he had followed the same routine – rising for an inspection of his wounds and some food before taking up residence outside. Peter had promised the soldier that he would borrow some horses and take him back the spot he and Ben had found him. The Roman had insisted they leave immediately but, in his weakened state, it had not taken much to prove that he was not ready for such an excursion. 

As she reached him, Berys smiled at the man. "Good day to you. How are you faring this day?"

"As well as is to be expected," he replied, managing a small smile for her kindness.

She did not like to ask but Berys knew the question could not avoided. "Do you remember anything of your life yet?" He looked a little pained by the query but concealed it well enough.

"All my clothes are those of an officer, of that I am sure. I am also certain that this place is not my home. Peter says my skin is roughened by much wind and he thinks perhaps I live further north." The Roman paused for a moment, contemplating the idea, then added, "I am not sure that there is a place on this island I should call home." Aware of the melancholy turn their exchange had taken, he looked back at her, brightly. His green eyes were dull but he was trying and Berys had to admire him for that.

"Well, that is something. Do you think you had many men under you?"

"I expect so. An officer would have many men under his orders. I have told Peter that my best chance is for us to seek out any military manoeuvres being undertaken in these parts." He peered up at her once more, shielding his eyes from the sun's glare. "I have been lacking in manners. I have not yet thanked you for caring for me. It cannot have been pleasant."

Berys saw that his eyes were full of sincerity and she sat down beside him. Placing her basket on the ground, she put a hand on his arm. "Your survival is thanks enough, for a fine mess we would have been in had you died." Strangely, she felt safe in his presence and found herself wishing he were not so set upon leaving Cowfold. "Besides, you gave me time to practise my healing skills. Do you think I would make a good healer?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows, startled. "I had no considered such a path for you."

Berys studied him closely. "But you have considered me, nonetheless?" She hoped she did not sound too forward but their time alone was limited. If she was to make her growing affection known, it had to be done soon. For a moment, the Roman simply stared at her in disbelief. Then he laughed, softly but in earnest. She laughed, too. "You think me forward, no doubt."

"No," he countered, quickly, not wishing to offend the woman who had looked after him during his hours of need.

"While I am not lacking the courage, I should also say that it is not my habit to be so forthcoming." Berys found herself blushing under his intent gaze.

"Ours are strange circumstances indeed and it would be stranger still to step back to the formality we left behind the day you began nursing me."

Once more, he had found the way to set Berys' heart at ease and her flirtatious nature took hold again. "So?"

Arthur looked surprised. "So?"

Berys laughed. "Do you think I might make a good healer?" He opened his mouth to reply but she cut him off, her voice adopting a more motherly tone. "Truly now, let us go indoors and see how that wound of yours is healing." Arthur followed her lead into Peter's house.

He felt confused by Berys' advances. She was a comely young woman, of that there was no denying. Yet, there was so much he did not know. What if he had a wife, a family? Even if that were not the case, how could he provide for a wife when he had no recollection of who he was? Arthur's eyes roamed over Berys' shapely curves as she soaked cloth for the wound and prepared a fresh poultice. She would do any man proud and bear beautiful children but something stopped him from taking the vision further. He had seen the way Peter looked at her and even recognised the way Berys played with his emotions. They were well matched and Arthur would not be the one to come between them. After all, were it not for Peter's kindness, he would be a dead man.

Berys drew up a stool beside the pallet and gently helped the Roman pull the fabric of his tunic away from the shoulder wound. She peeled back the bandages and dressing, her face a mask of concentration. Arthur watched her out of the corner of his eye, at the gentle curve of her neck and the light spattering of freckles across her curved nose. "Will I live?" he enquired, straining to see the wound. Berys prodded around the edges and looked pleased when no fluid oozed out.

"I do declare you will, sir. The wound is healing nicely." She offered him a warm smile and began applying the new poultice and bandages.

Arthur found his mind turning to more pressing issues. "Do you think I am well enough to ride?"

Berys lifted her head, her mouth open as if prepared to speak but not willing to utter the words. Arthur could read what she was thinking. She was torn between the knowledge that helping him would take him further from her and genuine belief that he was not ready for such exertion. "Please," he begged, although the gesture felt alien to him. Clearly, begging was not something he was accustomed to in his old life. "I feel better. There is no more sickness or dizziness. The wound is well stitched and healing well. Peter and I will return before dusk and he will ensure the ride is smooth."

Inwardly, Berys chided herself for succumbing, but she could do no less in the face of such pitiful pleading. "Very well, but I am not stitching you up again if you over exert yourself. Do you hear?" She wagged a finger playfully in his face and was rewarded with an open smile of gratitude. Oh, how long she could have bathed in the warmth of that smile!

Arthur waited as patiently as he could for her to redress his wound before darting to the vegetable patch where he knew he would find Peter. Horses were needed and the morning was already passing.

* * *

For the first two days in the Saxon camp, Gawain had been frustrated and disconcerted by his inertia. Now, he was only too happy to spend an afternoon in his tent, alone. Truth be told, the events of his first mission still replayed themselves in his mind over and over again. Yet, the reason for this was inexplicable. Apart from the pretence of Roman authorisation, he had not been asked to do anything beyond what he was willing to. His thoughts went out to his comrades in the north who would suffer the loss of sheepskins, fresh armour and weapons, amongst other more basic needs. 

Unferth had accompanied Gawain to the road side on his own horse while the other Saxons remained hidden in the undergrowth at the edge of the woods. The blonde knight had tried to remember his sense of decorum, thinking himself back into the rigmarole of being a Roman soldier. He had to be convincing. Both his own and Lancelot's lives depended on it. Once again, Gawain's mind returned to his hot-headed friend and his demise. The knight prayed he was right in his belief that Lancelot had been rescued.

The two men waited for the better part of an hour for the first signs of travellers making their weary way up from the channel. The wind had picked up and the trees rustled furiously, an appropriate backdrop indeed. The distant rumble of cart wheels and horses' hooves finally signalled the traders' approach. Unferth had already organised for heavy tree trunks to be dragged across the well trodden road, leaving only room enough for one cart to pass through at a time.

Gawain turned now to his captor, glancing down at the Saxon's sheathed sword. "Can I have my sword back? I hardly think they will take me seriously without one." Blue eyes met stony grey ones, wariness meeting defiance. For a moment, Gawain believed he could see the barren wilderness of Scandinavia reflected there – a bleak place empty of warmth. The moment was broken as Unferth unbuckled the sword from his hip and passed it to Gawain. The worn, leather scabbard was still warm from where it rested against the man's leg. The knight was surprised to see that the weapon was not Saxon but Roman and neither was it the sort of ornate spoil one would expect of such a leader. It was simple but sturdy enough. Unferth nodded in faint acknowledgement of Gawain's promise and drew his horse back to the camouflage of the forest.

Gawain had been instructed to stand his ground beside the road at this point, ensuring the Roman banner was clearly visible to approaching traffic. The knight's saddle bags had been thoroughly searched upon his and Lancelot's arrival in the Saxon camp and the banner had been amongst Gawain's belongings.

The procession of carts and horses had been fairly large and Gawain wondered if he alone would be enough to bring them to a stand still. He directed his horse into the centre of the road and signalled for the first carriage to halt. He waited for the driver to draw attention to himself. A grey haired, barrel-chested man stood up on his cart and demanded. "What is the meaning of this!"

"By order of the Roman Emperor, you are to halt and unload your wares here at the roadside." Gawain spoke loudly and clearly, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt at this moment in time.

The man's mouth closed abruptly, clearly not expecting the answer he received. "Oh." He pondered the instruction for a moment before blurting out, "That is preposterous! I will do no such thing!"

Gawain reined his horse in level with the man atop his cart, eyeing him sternly. "You will do so or I will run you through and take possession of this cart myself." The knight noted the immediate alteration in the trader's face when he realised Gawain meant business.

The tension of the moment was broken when a fellow trader marched up to the pair from a cart behind. "What's going on? We have but four hours before dark and there is still a long way to go until our resting place for the night." He stopped, red-faced, partly from annoyance as well as exertion, just shy of Gawain's horse. The animal snorted derisively at him in response.

The first trader held up a hand in protest. "No, Har, let it be. This here is a Roman officer. He says we must leave our goods with him…on orders of the Emperor himself." The last words were spoken with careful deliberation, as if he were still unconvinced. Gawain did not bother to respond but cast an icy glare at the second trader. "Do you have a problem with that, too, traveller? Or perhaps you would like to discuss the matter further with the toe of my boot." The knight nudged his horse forward a few steps, just enough to startle the man and ensure he was exactly level with said boot.

"But how are we to make our living! These wares are for trading in the north, at the Wall. We cannot arrive empty-handed! I have a family to feed, a babe in arms I have yet to see! I cannot return home with nothing!" The man's voice rose, verging on hysteria, and Gawain found himself struggling to maintain his loftiness. While he despised desperation and tears in a man, he could see from the trader's attire that his family's livelihood did indeed depend upon his success at market.

The knight lifted his head to the tree line, as if he were expecting the Saxons to have suddenly disappeared. A momentary gleam of sunlight reflected off a sword amid the foliage reminded him that no such miracle was to be expected. Gawain steeled himself before turning back to the two men. "It is for your own protection and for those at the Wall. Saxon looters roam these parts and they will show you no mercy. Just two days ago, men such as yourselves were gutted from groin to sternum on this very road. They only lived long enough to describe their assailants to me." He paused, allowing the gory story to have its full effect. "Your goods will be conveyed by military men with skills and defences to withstand Saxon attack."

"Can they not accompany us to the Wall? We must see our wares to the Wall," the second man pleaded.

"Unless you wish to travel to the Wall alone to negotiate such a deal and then, assuming it is accepted, travel back for your goods, the answer is 'no'." Gawain reached inside his belt for his papers, which carried proof of his identity. Ensuring neither man could see its contents, Gawain produced a piece of coal he had chiselled to a point for writing with. He had learnt a little Latin from Arthur. As a young boy, drafted into the Roman legions, Gawain had been schooled little beyond swordplay and fist fighting at home. Arthur had ensured all his knights understood a little Latin as well as some arithmetic before the first year of their service under him was complete. Gawain found his mind momentarily wandering. Arthur seemed so far from him now. "I am keeping a list of names. You will be paid your dues once trading has been completed at the Wall."

The man on top of his cart tried in vain to see the scribblings on Gawain's scroll. "You mean that Romans are going to seek out every trader on this route and repay them! A fine tale, indeed! How are you to find us again? Besides, the price at market dictates our next purchases."

Gawain sighed, trying to contain his annoyance while simultaneously searching for his next convincing argument. "You have wasted enough of my time with this prattle. My army waits just beyond yonder trees. Do as I have ordered or suffer the consequences." His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, taking care that his threat did not fall on deaf ears.

The two traders looked at each other in resignation before the first man shrugged and dismounted, charging his companions with pulling the many boxes from his cart. Gawain sighed inwardly with relief. His first mission was over. That was painless enough.

Now, as he sat alone in his tent, the knight returned to wondering what had become of his friends. How long it had been since they were last together! Mere days but it felt like years after all the events Gawain had witnessed in the past few days. Closing his eyes against the harsh reality of being a Saxon prisoner, the blonde knight allowed his mind to wander to happier times. Before long sleep lassoed him and he dreamed of a company of knights, free of their armour, feeling the wind in their hair as they rode side by side across endless plains.

* * *

Two long days passed. Gawain continued with the job Unferth had allotted him. Bors and Dagonet made the long trek back up to the Wall, deciding it a better choice in the long run than trying their luck in the villages of the south. Tristan and Galahad widened their search for Arthur and Lancelot, never knowing how close they came to their leader when they entered the village of Cowfold. Unfortunately, perhaps, Peter, Ben and Berys had done a worthy job of concealing their wounded charge and the two knights left the area disappointed. For Lancelot, one day blended into the other under eternal torchlight. More than twenty feet below ground, he was oblivious to the passage of time beyond his own reckoning. It had not helped the telling that he had been asleep for much of it. With food in his belly and a warm bed, he had succumbed to rest quickly. 

The stranger had been gentle with him and, although it had tasted foul, Lancelot had to concede that the concoction had been strengthening. For many hours after his arrival, the knight had slept deeply and dreamlessly and, once he awoke, the pain of his injuries had diminished. He lay for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the muffled sounds of activity around him. Then, Lancelot tested his left leg, lifting it a little, and was astonished to discover it worked perfectly and without even a twinge of pain. He looked around the room but the stranger was nowhere to be seen so he swung his legs off the bed and sat up.

On awakening, the dim light of the torches seemed brighter and Lancelot took the opportunity to take a closer look at the manacles encircling his wrists. They were seamless, extremely well welded of sturdy metal with no rusting. The pins driven through to hold them in place had been bent with a heavy hammer and would need another good whack to release them. Lancelot's eyes roamed the room once more, hoping to see something strong enough for the task. There was nothing. The cavern was more of an apothecary's workplace than anything else. The strongest implement the knight could see was a wooden ladle and a few divining rods. Admitting defeat on the manacle count, Lancelot turned his attention to the accompanying chain embedded in the wall behind him. That, too, had been firmly attached, welded to a metal plate which in turn had been hammered with six strong nails into the timber support.

Lancelot knew it would take many days to work even one or two loose with his bare hands. His prospects were gloomy so the knight turned his mind to more positive ideas. The stranger had, so far, treated him with due courtesy and kindness so Lancelot tried to think how he might communicate his appreciation. Even if he had been traded by the Saxons for more sinister purposes, the knight still hoped his good conduct would go some way to swaying the stranger's plans for him.

Lancelot's mind turned to the man's possible origins. He had the dark features and waxy skin of those who lived in the north eastern reaches of the Empire. His tongue was not dissimilar to Sarmatian language but neither was it similar enough to hinge a conversation upon. Lancelot was wondering if it was worth trying to engage him in his native language nonetheless when the stranger appeared. He had changed into fresh clothes. They were still black, Lancelot noted, so a man after his own heart. He also noticed that the man was carrying a bowl of steaming liquid. Lancelot could smell its contents already and was relieved that he recognised the ingredients for a change. The scent of fresh chicken was unmistakable and Lancelot had not realised how hungry he was until his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

The stranger's mouth twitched into a momentary smile as he handed Lancelot the bowl with a hunk of bread. Then, as the knight blew on the liquid to cool it, the stranger knelt before him and motioned with his hands for Lancelot to lift his tunic. The man had been meticulous in his inspection of his charge's wounds.

Even as Lancelot obeyed, he marvelled at the gentle touch and glanced down at the slender hands which roamed over his healing skin. As he looked, the stranger's sleeve rode up his right forearm and Lancelot noticed a dark, inked pattern there. He frowned as a long forgotten memory was jogged deep in his subconscious. He recognised the symbol – a vertical line made of circles and stars with a wavy line beside it. The stranger worked on, oblivious to Lancelot's scrutiny and this gave the knight time to trace his memory.

As he looked closer, he recalled a thick finger tracing the pattern in the earth. The hand was his father's. At first, everything was bound up in sensations. Lancelot could smell the warm earth in his nostrils and hear the wind whistling through the roof timbers of his childhood home. Then, slowly, the words swam back through the knight's brain; the story of a dark order of men. Yet, they were no ordinary men.

Legend told of a horrific massacre in the heart of the mountains where a once peaceful people were raped, tortured and exterminated without mercy. Only one child escaped and lived to tell how every woman and child was brutally destroyed and their menfolk taken from them. The men were spared that end but only the gods know what they suffered later. So the story went that these men were taken by cloaked creatures to the foot of a great mountain, where the rocks parted to let them pass. They disappeared into the darkness and the mountain sealed up behind them, leaving no trace of its existence.

For ten years, nothing was seen of those men. They were believed dead and the tale of their demise became the stuff of stories, embellished and used to frighten children away from the dangers of the mountain passes. That is, until the day a town grew angry at its cruel lord. He taxed them highly but he would not defend the people of his lands. At a public tournament, several hooded figures appeared behind the dais. As they approached the lord, a villager recognised a face as one of the men who had disappeared all those years ago. When he spoke the man's name, the man turned to him as if he recognised it but could not say why. The lord insisted they reveal their faces fully and explain themselves. Not even his knights and protectors could save him from the horrific death he was dealt at the hands of these merciless people.

To this day, rumours of the dark order, whose arrival foretold of the utmost suffering and death, were still told in hushed tones around the fire. The tales were enough to chill the blood of even the toughest fighter. Over the years, the rumour had gained momentum and the tattoo Lancelot was looking at now had been added to the ways these frightening people could be identified.

The knight felt a tingling all along his spine. Had he been brought into the bowels of one of those mountains? Was he destined to become one of them, to walk the earth as a ghostly grim reaper? Then a worse fate presented itself to him. It was just as likely he had been brought here to suffer for some sin he had committed and now he was going to die the most unimaginably painful death any man could conceive.

Lancelot could not take his eyes off the tattoo and, without thought, he whispered, "Egveksol…", the name given to the order. Instantly, the stranger froze and the knight regretted his words. He watched in fear as the man raised his head. Lancelot half expected to see that some monstrous visage had replaced the calm, cool face that had been there before. Instead, the face was the same but it held a passion Lancelot had not seen before. There was a glow under his skin, a fiery pyre in his eyes that shone with hunger for all the lives he would take. A mirthless smile crawled across his face and Lancelot shrank from it. The smile was a bleached skull of death.

The stranger opened his mouth, eyes narrowing as he stared at Lancelot as if trying to understand where the knight would have heard the word. Then, he ran one hand over the tattoo, lost in thoughts Lancelot had no desire to be party to. Then, those hooded eyes turned back to him but now they were hard and impenetrable. "Vasil'ev," he hissed and, without pause, punched Lancelot so hard across the face it sent him reeling for a moment.

In that time, the man knocked him to the floor and all but flung the bed across the confined space of the cavern. By the time Lancelot had realised what was happening, he had been hauled to his feet and the man was gripping his neck with one hand. Lancelot felt the hand tighten and he was finding it difficult to breathe. He tried to lift his hands to break the chokehold but the chains were too short. Lancelot spluttered and felt the blood rushing in his ears. His eyes pleaded for release but the man continued, his hold seeming only to gain in strength. The knight could hear a ringing sound and he found it difficult to focus anymore. The torchlight faded to a pinprick in the centre of his vision and then there was nothing.

* * *

When he came to, Lancelot could smell the earth around him strongly. It filled his nostrils and he reflexively tried to move away from it. Instantly, the knight could feel and hear the heavy metal chains restraining him as well as a throbbing pain in his arms. As he opened his eyes though, it was clear that he was no longer in the same room or the same position as he had been before. Lancelot realised that he was facing the wall of the cave, spreadeagled with his arms currently bearing all his weight until he found his feet. 

The memory of being strangled into unconsciousness came back to him and Lancelot winced when he tried to swallow. In quick succession, all the other memories of the past hours flooded his mind. He was being held captive by one of the deadliest people walking the earth. From the stories he had heard, this Vasil'ev, as Lancelot had chosen to call him, might not even be a man at all. The knight did not want to admit that he was afraid but also knew that if he gave his torturer a name, somehow it would humanise him. Lancelot was no fool. He knew what being bound up in this spreadeagle position meant and it came as no surprise when he heard the sound of a whip being tested through the air behind him.

He did not know what possessed him to crane his neck round for a better view of what was to come but, after he did, Lancelot wished he had kept his face to the wall. Whatever manly name he chose to call the stranger was sorely misplaced now. Only a demon remained in that human body; his face empty of all emotion beyond a sense of careful precision. Vasil'ev's eyes held no compassion or even the glee Lancelot had seen reflected there before. As the whip cracked, the knight closed his eyes and braced himself for what would follow.

Sharp, bitter pain, like salt poured into a wound. All Lancelot's nerve endings were on fire, crying out for mercy but, as each lash crossed the previous wound, the knight found himself unable to focus the pain in one place alone. The whip cut deep into his tender flesh, flaying open his skin like a knife through warm butter. Lancelot could feel warm trickles of blood running down his back and seeping into the cloth of his breeches. He bit his lip until it, too, bled but even that could not hinder the cries that occasionally passed his lips.

Lancelot tried to detach his mind from the unrelenting reality but he could find no relief from the torture. From the dulled, thick sound of the whip, the knight knew the centre of his back was little more than a bloody pulp. Occasionally, he felt the ferocious tug and muted pain of strips of flesh coming away from his body. Lancelot did not know how long he remained conscious but he prayed for the reprieve of oblivion. His back was so torn, but he no longer felt the severity of his wounds. Instead, his mind concentrated on the sharp pain when the whip caught his ear or the backs of his arms and neck. Were he not still awake to refute it, Lancelot would have believed such torture to be unbearable, but bear it he had. Slowly, gratefully, his brain succumbed to the weakness of blood loss and exhaustion, and the darkness claimed him while the sound of the lash still echoed in his ears.

END OF PART 12

And, if you'd kindly review, there's plenty more where that came from!


	13. The Wall

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

CHAPTER 13 : THE WALL See Part one for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Sorry for the HUGE delay on this story. No good excuses really, just a complete lack of direction and inspiration & a deep desire for someone else to finish it for me! But thanks to a fantastic enforced writing session with a fellow writer, I have more to offer you. If there's anyone still out there reading, I hope you enjoy it. Once again, massive thanks to everyone who has been supporting me so far. I'm sorry about the formatting problems. I've spent hours faffing around with this ridiculous Mac and am now in danger of angrily wiping my whole story out of frustration, so this is the best I can do at the moment. Plus it seems to have decided to wipe most of my punctuation which p's me off as well. Sorry!

* * *

The journey had taken several days and the wind had grown fierce by the time Bors and Dagonet neared the great Wall. The burly, bald knight hardly knew whether to be grateful for avoiding Woads all the way or feel worried about what lay ahead. It was not in Bors' nature to worry, so he chose the first option and kicked his horse's flanks with unnecessary vehemence and the animal whinnied in protest.Dagonet spurred his horse on to keep up with his friend and, within the hour, the thin sliver of grey rock stoically dividing the savages of the north from the subjugated people of the south appeared in the distance. Bors pulled his horse up sharply and waited for his companion to do the same. "Home sweet home," he murmured, bitterly. Dagonet let out a low, sardonic laugh. "For the first time in my life, this place is like a true sanctuary""Do not get your hopes up, Dag. We've still got to convince them to hand over the troops we need""They'll do it. It's Arthur." Dagonet's words were spoken with conviction but Bors found it hard to believe their mission would be so easily accomplished. They had to contend with people who had never wielded a sword in their lives and viewed warriors as a means to an end. They were disposable, mere pawns to be shuffled around and replaced when they fell from the ranks. In all his years of service, Bors found it hard to believe anything would change now.Still, it would be sensible to remain optimistic at this stage. No doubt, any hope they had would be neatly cut down to size within a few moments of arrival. Nudging his mount forwards, Bors sought out the well trodden track leading to the main gate. 

As expected, the governor of the Wall received the two knights with less civility than they were due but Dagonet had coached Bors well in the art of biting his tongue. The last thing they needed was his temper running away with their chances of support. Without the mighty presence of Arthur, the two knights were treated to a mean meal of stale bread and bones better fit for a dog than for men to find the strings of meat still attached there. There was a strong mead which made even Bors hardy stomach recoil. To add to the insult, the men ate this in a cold alcove without any warmth from the fire, neither were they offered the comfort of having their day-to-day armour removed and replaced with clean tunics. Bors had grown accustomed to being treated with due respect as one of Arthur's knights and heavily resented the ignorance of those attending them.  
Dagonet, on the other hand, knew that they needed to stay as calm and undemanding as possible until their cards were laid on the table. It would help their cause if they had not already been cast in an unfavourable light before gaining an audience with their superiors. The lives of their friends, nay, brothers, depended on their diplomacy. For that reason alone, the wait for an audience with the new governor of the Wall seemed interminable and it was with a muted sense of relief that the two men were shown into Flavius' chambers.  
The man had a harried expression on his face and a veritable mountain of scrolls around him, hardly an inspiring picture of rescue. However, this did not deter the impervious Bors. "My name is Bors and this is my fellow knight, Dagonet. We keep company with Artorius. You may have heard of him"  
Both knights watched with interest to see what reaction this last statement may have had. If Flavius was unmoved, their plea would be rendered all but redundant. Fortunately, the general raised his eyebrows with renewed interest. "Word has it that he and his knights are the reason the Wall still stands under Roman rule. We are all indebted to your courage"  
Dagonet smiled, grateful for the acknowledgement. "Then perhaps, sir, we may fall upon your gratitude and ask for your help. We were sent on a mission to the south some days ago to oust out some Saxon hoarders blocking trading passages to the north"  
"I heard of the mission, yes. We did not expect word so soon of your success"  
"No, and indeed we had no wish to return to the Wall under such unfavourable circumstances, but several of our number are captured, Arthur included, and we are outnumbered. We only ask..." Dagonet was cut short.  
"You wish me to provide more men for your cause. I understand." Flavius nodded quietly to himself and for a moment he did not appear inclined to continue his thoughts until Bors cleared his throat loudly. Dagonet shot him a warning look which was duly unheeded. Still, Flavius seemed unoffended and waved his hand nonchalantly. "I am sorry. We have many troubles north of the wall at present and our soldiers are pressed into service with little time for recuperation. They are sent on forays to pick off the Saxons or posted on the Wall. I am not sure that I can help you"  
Dagonet stepped forwards, aware of how close Bors was to pushing the meeting into a less civil mode. "We are aware of the pressures here, sir, but we need no more than ten men and can assure you of their safe return. We have a good grasp of the Saxons and their movements and we are confident of our success if the numbers were more evenly matched"  
Bors butted in to add, "Not to mention that you will starve without the success of this mission. Besides, Arthur is revered amongst the soldiers. His death would go ill with the men here were they to get wind of your reluctance"  
Silence covered the space between the three men and Dagonet felt his heart sink into his boots. Bors had done it now. Threats were no idle thing in the governor's presence and well Flavius knew it. His entire demeanour altered and it was hard to believe the two knights were standing before the same man they had spoken to seconds ago. Gone was the bumbling clerk, weighed down by too much information to retain beneath his unruly grey curls, and so emerged a man to be reckoned with. Suddenly, his rise to the position of governor seemed more believable and Dagonet prayed to the heavens that Bors had not just sealed their friends' fates.  
"Do you threaten me?" The voice issued was low and forbidding.  
"My lord, forgive Bors' hastiness. He meant nothing by it, only that he fears for the life of a man who has become something of a king amongst soldiers. We have followed him faithfully since boyhood and his death would weigh sore on the hearts of many. I would gladly give my life if it would trade our places, but it cannot. We only ask for ten men who will be unharmed and returned forthwith. Then it will be Arthur who will be indebted to you, governor, and every man shall know it." Dagonet's voice trembled but he hoped his desperation did not show too much. He was a man of few words and those were rarely sentimental. Arthur was truly indebted to both the governor and himself today for his lilied speech.  
Dagonet saw Bors face turn to towards him out of the corner of his eye but refused to return the older man's gaze. He had no wish to see the expression there, not the reflection of his own astonishment at the eloquence of his words nor the jesting smile which told Dag he would not live the moment down.  
Flavius smiled a little then looked to Bors. "You should be grateful for a friend such as this. He knows well how to cover your blunders. I will find you some men but I will not pay them. That will be your jurisdiction and I suggest you reward them well or else they may lose themselves mysteriously on the journey to the south"  
The two knights bowed low and Bors managed to say a few words of thanks before turning his back on the governor. At the door, Flavius' voice rang out, "I will remember your words, knights. These men must be returned as soon as they can be released and not a fatality amongst them." Bors shot Dagonet a withering look, knowing full well how unlikely it was that such a promise could be kept.  
After a good night's enforced rest, the knights awoke to the discovery that their men were saddling horses for the journey and would be ready within the hour. Before long, the small band was on the long road south, but where Dagonet expected to find relief, he only found the fear for Arthur, Gawain and Lancelot growing and his horse's legs simply did not propel him forward fast enough.

"He was not there," Galahad stated, bluntly. His eyes met Gawain's with something akin to pain. "Is there nowhere else Lancelot might be held."  
Gawain swallowed hard, wracking his brains for some fragmented memory which might suddenly leap to the forefront of his mind and aid them. "No," he shook his head, "When I have not been out on a mission, I have been closely watched. I have either been kept in here or in Unferth's company. I have been privy to nothing more than the Saxons wish for me. I am sorry."  
Tristan put a placating hand on his friend's shoulder. "Do not fear. We will explore other avenues. He is not dead"  
"How do you know that!" Galahad blurted out, frustration gaining mastery of his senses. "Be honest, such a fate is more than likely in these circumstances"  
Gawain glared at him, his blue eyes cold and piercing. He had dealt with enough of his young companion's indulgence. "Peace, Galahad! Stop your whining. Perhaps you would rather change places. I would gladly if I could." Gawain's harsh words silenced the younger knight. Turning his attention back to Tristan, Gawain said, "There will be a fourth ambush tomorrow morning. Perhaps I can use the situation to my advantage and gain some information on Lancelot's whereabouts"  
Tristan nodded, "Be careful. We would not welcome the loss of another of our party." The words were softened with a smile but Gawain knew well the care behind them. The clank of weapons outside the tent flap hastened the conclusion of their meeting, forcing Tristan and Galahad to make a rapid exit.  
Gawain remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the straw covering on the earth beneath him. How had events taken such a dire turn? His blue eyes flitted to the share of loot he had been afforded from the past three road ambushes. Unferth had not given them to him out of gratitude; they had been given to Gawain as a reminder of his deeds, branding his Saxon-like behaviour into his brain inescapably. The blonde knight rubbed callused fingers across his brow, the skin feeling more furrowed with care than before. He could have slept standing up, he was so exhausted by the time the Saxons allowed him to return to their camp. The knight was drained both physically and mentally, too tired even to protest as two men roughly relieved him of the Roman military regalia, taking particular care to pat him down for weapons. Now, with the latest news from his friends, things seemed even more hopeless.  
Unceremoniously, he threw himself back onto the hard pallet, inhaling the scent of animal skins beneath him. More than anything, Gawain wished he had a goblet of mead, strong and honeyed like fire down his throat. He needed to clear his head, to feel alive once more. His brain felt muddled and woolly and there was too much information to absorb. Lancelot and Arthur could not have vanished from the face of the earth. If they were unharmed, they would have given some sign of their whereabouts or continued to the meeting point, where Tristan and Galahad returned each day in hope of finding one of them. Therefore, Gawain could only conclude that both were harmed or else held captive. Lancelot's outlook was grim at best and the blonde knight was certain of Arthur's arrow injury, having witnessed the scene. Rubbing his temples, Gawain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He must imagine better circumstances. A path would open up ahead of him and the knight would see his way clear to bring Arthur and the band back together.

The day dawned, pigeon grey with a rain mist sent to sympathise with Gawain's darkening mood. He was awakened from a tormented sleep by a cool hand on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring up into the face of Aedre. "You are fevered," she said softly.  
"I am fine," Gawain replied, perhaps too gruffly. He swung his legs off the side of the pallet and sat up abruptly. His mind was already filled with the horrors this day would inevitably bring. He balked at the prospect of plundering other men's carts and horses for goods which would deprive both them and his fellow soldiers at the Wall.  
"But you are sweating," Aedre noted, unruffled by his curt response. "Let me fetch you some water"  
"I would prefer to be left in peace," came the taut reply. Gawain darted an irritated glance in her direction as he straightened up, wincing as the base of his spine clicked in protest against the hard night's sleep.  
Aedre stepped backwards. "What is the matter"  
Instead of softening in the presence of an impressionable young lady, Gawain's humour was too dark as to be almost irretrievable. Incensed by her ignorance, fury broke free. "What is the matter! I cannot say for certain. Perhaps it is being prisoner to Saxons, or perhaps the fact that my comrades in the north are starving because I am stopping goods from reaching them." Gawain moved closer to Aedre, his eyes burning with anger. The girl remained motionless, her face rigid with fear. "No, I am over-reaching. It must be the thought of my best friend being tortured under your father's orders, his body beaten black and blue for a Saxon's pleasure and nameless other horrors, the likes of which you are lucky enough never to have seen." Gawain finished, searching her face for affirmation that the force of his words had sunk in.  
Aedre's mouth worked but no sound came out. Finally, she breathed, "I am sorry...I"  
Gawain's shoulders heaved with a great sigh of resignation and he pulled away, shamefully. His anger spent, he regretted his words. "No, it is I who am sorry. You did not deserve that. You are as much at your father's mercy as I am. I just feel so"  
"...helpless. I wish there was something I could do to help you." Aedre's face softened once mre and Gawain offered her a warm smile. Fleetingly, the thought of asking her for aid crossed his mind. She could smuggle in weapons, unnoticed, or even give him a means by which to escape the camp. Then, the knight thought better of it. He had heard many a story of the bloodthirsty nature of the Saxons, and knew enough to understand that even Aedre would not be exempt from punishment. Gawain himself could offer her no sanctuary so he would not compromise her delicate position.  
"Your understanding is enough. You are the one part of this nightmare I will regret leaving behind," he smiled.  
"That might be remedied, should you choose it," she said, uncertainly, and a rosy flush warmed her cheeks with embarrassment at her own bold speech.  
Gawain shook his head. "I wish that I could but my life is not a life to be shared with another. I am a man of service and my path will take me far from this land, far from yours. I cannot foretell the future but it will be fraught. You are safer here"  
"Safer?" Aedre repeated, unconvinced. "Indeed. I am perhaps better suited to remaining with my kin until such time as an admirable match can be found"  
Gawain did not miss the resignation in her voice but, callous as it may have seemed, he had more pressing concerns than the matrimonial status of a Saxon lady. "I must prepare myself. There is a long day ahead"  
"Yes, I have left your armour at the door." Aedre took one long look at the knight before her, taking in his manly stature and the fierce battle-hardened face with chiselled jaw and the blue gaze steadily returning her own. He was a fine man indeed and she was sorry to be so quickly dismissed from his life. Bowing her head in a gesture of respect, Aedre took her leave.

Another chapter nearly completed is on its way in the next couple of days. Please, please review!


	14. Friends Rediscovered

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

CHAPTER 14 : FRIENDS REDISCOVERED

See Part one for disclaimers etc. Again, apologies for the formatting. I have downloaded a new browser but this Mac is killing me! I think I've fixed the problem now so hopefully the next chapter will show up fine...when I write it!

Ben's mood had darkened over the course of the morning. The stranger they had rescued, now named Petronius for ease's sake, had insisted on daily rides around the area, excursions of ever expanding circles. At first, they had seemed a rare treat to a man who had no occasion to stray from his village unless foraging for food. They had held promise of adventures and excitement. However, as one day wore into the next and rain poured from the heavens more often than sunshine graced the land, his view was beginning to change.  
The Roman rode long and hard across the countryside until the wind whipped his cheeks into a crimson bloom and his hair into a mass of unruly dark curls. He stopped faithfully at every croft and hovel, hoping for some word of fellow Romans or mention of a name which might trigger the return of his memories. There had been none. The only story to surface time and again was the dreaded Saxon raiders, stopping the road and lightening merchants of their loads. With no other alternative routes and warnings scantily supplied, the danger seemed only to have increased with time. Ben had been wary of Petronius' thoughts on the matter. With every new mention of the Saxons, the Roman appeared more intrigued.  
Little did Ben know that the day had finally come for the matter to be tackled head on. The two men stopped to eat some lunch and rest the horses. Petronius was lost in thought for some time and Ben was content to enjoy the blissful silence. Finally, the Roman sp0ke. "Ben, what do you make of the Saxon concerns"  
"I would stay as far away from the area as I possibly could," he grumbled, hoping to put his companion off any rash ideas.  
"But you found me close the woods they inhabit, did you not?" Petronius asked, his green eyes levelled inquisitively at Ben.  
"That I did, but those woods stretch for miles. One end of them is far from similar to the other end. Two men could exist happily within them a lifetime without setting eyes upon one another. Take my word and leave well alone"  
"I often wonder, though, how long the Romans would accept such behaviour from the Saxons before acting on them. There might be soldiers fighting against them as we speak and I might have been one of them." Petronius paused, twisting a tall blade of grass around his finger. Ben could not help but notice that the Roman never tore it from the ground, respecting it's small life as if it were as valuable as a human one.  
"Of there were Romans in battle, we would know about it, of that you can be sure. Gossip such as that spreads like wildfire, not to mention that the soldiers inevitably descend on the nearest village for food." Ben shook his head, determinedly, "No, as much as I wish you could find your answer, it will not be amongst the Saxons"  
"Still...," Petronius began. He recalled the dreams which had plagued him over the past nights. Each time there were faces he knew should be familiar, friends, but beneath the comfort of their presence was a burgeoning sense of danger, of Saxons.  
Ben silenced him with a wagging finger. "No, Petronius. The answer is no and you would do well to accept it. I will not permit you to endanger your own life or mine on a foolish whim"  
"This is no whim, Ben. I am lost here and the Saxons are the last frontier before I must quite this place and find a new path. I do not belong among you people, for all your hospitality. I have no choice but to leave you. I do not ask you to follow me. If I do not return before dusk, give Berys and Peter my thanks. I wish I could offer you better recompense for the care you have taken of me"  
"We would do the same again," Ben replied, ignoring the guilty in his brain that reminded him of how he had argued with Peter over the great financial rewards of rescuing a near-dead Roman officer. "However, I will not leave you to die at the hands of a Saxon. I will accompany you to the edge of the Stane road. We will be able to see any Roman soldiers from our vantage point without drawing attention to ourselves. Come with me." Tossing the rest of his bread back into the leather satchel, Ben jumped up and mounted his horse. Petronius knew Ben better than to question his sudden change of heart and followed suit. After some time travelling, they could see the telltale rubbish on the ground, signifying how close they were to the Stane road. Voices could be heard barking commands and the sound of wheels being ground to a halt. Ben dismounted behind an outcrop of rocks and tied his horse up, prompting Petronius to do the same. Crouching close to the ground, the two men moved closer to the road and peered out at the travellers passing by. "I cannot see a thing," Petronius whispered, impatiently. "I need to get a closer look"  
"What do you suggest?" Ben hissed. "There is no way to get any closer without being detected"  
"I will ride into the midst of the merchants and hopefully go unnoticed amongst them. After all, I have nothing to lose. I am just a lone traveller riding from south to north." Petronius did not even turn his head to check with Ben. He shuffled back to wher ehis horse was tethered and mounted then urged the animal further away from the road. Ben considered following but knew that someone had to live to see how events turned out. After all, his new friend might be in need of further medical attention after a skirmish with Saxons.  
Meanwhile, Petronius had found an inconspicuous place amongst a large group of men. The Roman could see a band of Saxons riding out behind them to block off any merchants who attempted to turn back. The jam of people moved slowly but this gave Petronius reasonable time to view what was happening up ahead. A blonde soldier in full Roman garb had halted the first cart and was questioning its bearer closely.  
For a moment, Petronius examined the exchange with mild interest, then flashes of the man flew through his brain. He could not catch hold of any of them long enough to be of use but the emotional response was overwhelming. He knew the man, of that Petronius was certain. But how? Was he friend or foe? The Roman armour indicated they were on the same side but it was no guarantee of their friendship. He could be Saxon and have stolen the armour from a fallen soldier. Indeed, the blonde hair and fierce eyes were common traits of their Scandinavian foes.  
The exchange between the two men took some time and the merchant was bravely, if not foolishly, standing his ground. Before long, the blonde Roman had dragged him from the cart and thrown him to the road where he drew a sword on him. The merchant raised his hands in surrender or protest. Petronius could not be sure but he thought he detected inhibition in the rough actions of the soldier, almost as if he were a pawn being unwillingly directed.

Gawain was trying his best to command respect and fear from the people on the road but, with each passing moment, he was finding it harder to punish innocent men on behalf of a race he abhorred. Today, there was a reason to stay his fist. Lancelot was not being held captive as he believed and therefore he could not be used as leverage by Unferth. Gawain was damned if he was going to continue fighting the Saxons' battles for them if it was for nothing.  
With his sword at the unarmed man's throat, Gawain felt sickened. He saw the panic and fear in the man's eyes, torn between the prospect of his own death now or the slow, agonising death by starvation which awaited him if he gave up his cart without a fight. Gawain saw his own hand fall to his side and sheathed his sword, then offered the same hand to help the merchant up. "Return to your wagon. I will let you pass," he said, gruffly.  
The merchant stared at him in disbelief for several long moments before Gawain barked the order more firmly. "Move on or your life will be in hands worse than mine!" The man scrabbled for footing on the edge of the cart and mounted quickly, babbling words of thanks. Gawain's response was to give the horse a hard whack on its rump with the flat of his sword. The animal whinnied in fright and started forwards.  
Gawain stood to the side and allowed several carts to pass, seeing the anxiety in the faces before him melt into gratitude. He did not have to wait long before the sound of Unferth's footsteps on the hard ground halted beside him and the heavily accented voice growled in his ear. "What do you think you are doing"  
Gawain continued to stare straight ahead. "I am letting these people pass. I am done"

Tristan and Galahad were watching the events unfolding before their eyes from the undergrowth, unaware that Ben was waiting mere yards from them. Galahad's breath caught in his throat when he saw Gawain let the merchants through and Unferth arrived. "What is he playing at"  
"He is calling Unferth's bluff," Tristan replied.  
"My god! We must be ready." Galahad's hand ran instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Whatever plans they might have shared, it was an unspoken oath that none of the knights could stand idly by while another of their number died at enemy hands. Even if it meant all of their deaths, a likely prospect given the odds, Gawain would not part this world alone.

Unferth chuckled mirthlessly at Gawain's bold words. "Perhaps our agreement needs some redefining"  
"No, it does not," Gawain retorted. "I remember it well. Do your worst. Run me through right now, but I will not continue with this charade." He turned to the Saxon, his own eyes burning bright with defiance.  
"Oh, I fear you have forgotten who will pay the price for your misdemeanours." Unferth's eyes glinted with manic glee.  
"Perhaps you are right. Who will pay again?" Gawain challenged.  
The smile faded from the Saxon's face and his voice grew icy with annoyance. "Do not think to play with your friend's life, Gawain. It is not wise"  
"You lie," Gawain continued. "You do not have Lancelot. He is already dead and I do not know how much longer you expected me to keep up this game"  
"Lancelot is alive and...well, alive. However, any more of this belligerence could cost him his life. After all, you would have outlived your usefulness." A smile played across the thin lips.  
"Prove it to me. Prove to me that he is alive and I will co-operate. I want to see Lancelot standing in front of me before I will raise a finger to help you again." Gawain's heart was pounding in his chest but Lancelot's life depended on this chance. It was stalemate. Unferth was no more able to bargain for Gawain's co-operation than the knight was for his freedom.  
"He is being held far from here. It would take a day to retrieve him"  
"Then I will just have to wait a day," Gawain replied, coldly.  
Unferth watched the knight for a moment, his eyes dancing with the thrill of the moment. Was there nothing that could beat the man down? "You are a man of honour, Gawain. While I do admire that quality, I also see it's foolishness, it's weakness. You see, I can hold your friend, Lancelot, hostage as blackmail but your honour is such that almost any innocent life is enough to bind you"  
With that, Unferth stepped out into the road and grabbed the arms of two young boys walking along beside a cart of furs. Without ceremony, Unferth slid his knife through the thin frame of the first and the boy gave him a look of silent shock before crumpling, lifeless, to the ground. The second made a horrified sound deep in his throat and tried to bolt but was held firm by Unferth's heavy hand.  
Fright spread along the road and merchants surged forwards, stumbling into one another in an effort to escape death at the hands of this monster.

Petronius was carried forwards past the halting point and his eyes were transfixed by the blonde Roman he was about to pass. With every beat of his heart, the man felt closer to certainty that he knew this man. At the moment of passing, the blonde knight looked up. His expression of horror at the dead child at his feet was instantly replaced with something akin to shock. The blue eyes were alight with an energy instantly ignited by recognition. In a flash, the face fell into place amidst fragments of memories Petronius had been unable to piece together before. Yes, the blonde man was a friend, closer than that even. He had a name, a name which rode so near to the Roman's consciousness...Gawain. Within moments, he had passed the spot and was moving down the road.  
He wanted desperately to turn back but he knew it would be suicide. Still, the urge was too great to stop him turning his head to take another look. Gawain's gaze had followed him and, for a second, their eyes met once more and the intensity of the connection was undeniable.  
Petronius swallowed deeply, trying to calm himself. At the first opportunity, he had to get off the road and return to the safety of Ben's hiding place. He steered his horse towards the edge of the road and tried to separate himself from the band without drawing too much attention his way.  
No sooner had he done this than a voice hissed from the undergrowth, "Arthur! Arthur"  
Once more, like a bolt of lightning through his body, Petronius found himself caught in a whirl of inexplicable emotions. The name was his own but it took a few moments to sink into the patches of memory still wiped clean with poison. The voice came again and, with each repetition, he knew himself a bit more. "Arthur," he breathed to himself, the name comforting on his lips.  
His gaze travelled to where the voices were coming from and he steered his horse clearer before dismounting. He was not far from where Ben had been hiding and the man scurried over, keeping his body low and out of Saxon view. "Petronius, thank the heavens you are safe! I thought you were done for"  
"Arthur?" The two men turned to see a pair of dishevelled soldiers before them. One had long hair, some of which was plaited untidily, and dark eyes which scrutinised the pair disconcertingly. The other looked young, his curly hair wind blown and his blue eyes brimming with unchecked emotion.  
Ben moved protectively in front of his charge. "You call him Arthur? Do you know him"  
"He is our friend, nay, our leader," the younger man replied. "I am Galahad and this is Tristan." His eyes moved from Ben to Arthur. "Arthur? Do you not know us"  
"I think..." Arthur mumbled, unsure of himself suddenly. His green eyes tracked the two men with suspicion and interest. He knew them, of that he was sure. They were also his friends. He could picture them around the campfire with him, drinking and laughing.  
Ben stepped in once more. "Tell me something about him. How do you know him?" Admittedly, their acknowledgement that Arthur was a leader despite his current peasant garments was almost proof enough. Still, it was safer to be careful.  
Arthur placed a friendly hand on Ben's shoulder. "Easy, Ben. I know these people. They feel...right. I think I remember them." A frown flickered across his brow as he tried to recall them more vividly.  
Galahad answered the question nevertheless. "He is our commander. We were sent from the Wall to purge this road of Saxon rule. Our numbers were divided and Arthur was shot through with an arrow then disappeared. Now, Gawain is being blackmailed into Saxon service and Lancelot is missing, possibly dead"  
"Lancelot?" Arthur whispered to himself. The name resounded more strongly in his mind than any of the others. An image of dark eyes, haunted and serious hovered for a second before being dispelled. He looked up at Galahad. "Gawain? The man I just passed?" Arthur queried, trying to confirm what his brain was telling him and piecing together the fabric of his past to his satisfaction.  
"That is right," Tristan nodded. "What happened to you"  
Ben replied, bluntly. "Poison"  
"Hmm, they are a devious lot, these Saxons," Tristan replied and turned to Ben. "We are grateful for your aid. Without it, Arthur's prospects would surely have been gloomy, indeed"  
Arthur smiled, his confidence growing with the certainty of his identity. "I will be forever indebted to him"  
"Are you strong? Are you well enough to fight?" Galahad quickly interjected. "We may have need of you this day. Gawain has put himself in great danger and we are outnumbered as it is"  
Tristan calmed him. "We must not be hasty. Bors and Dagonet will return soon, hopefully bringing reinforcements. If Gawain survives this incident, let us retreat and make camp for the night. Arthur will need time to understand all that has happened"  
"...and I would like to say farewell to those who have cared so diligently for me in my hour of need." Arthur finished, smiling warmly at Ben, who was beginning to look unsettled and out of place amidst the band of knights.  
They agreed to remain and check that Gawain was safe. Then, Galahad offered to return to the village with Ben and Arthur while his commander said his goodbyes. Tristan would return to the meeting place in case Bors and Dagonet turned up.

Meanwhile, Gawain's emotions were rolling with the enormity of what was unfolding before him. No sooner had a child been slaughtered in front of him, for his benefit, than Arthur had appeared from nowhere, his face an impenetrable mask. The knight did not know if the meeting was intended to be a sign or a message, but Gawain had little time to contemplate it before the second boy was thrust before him, Unferth's knife pressed against the white, unblemished flesh of the his throat.  
"You see how easy that was, Gawain the Worthy!" He moved his face close to Gawain's. "Taking a life means nothing to me, whether it be mine or another's. I shed that skin of kind a long time ago. Yet, your heart still beats for these wretches. It is strange, somehow compelling, this compassion of yours. How can you be a warrior and still hold onto those childhood ideals?" In that moment, Unferth's steady gaze seemed to penetrate to the very core of Gawain's being, poisoning its warmth with icy numbness. He regarded the knight with unnerving fascination.  
Gawain withstood the scrutiny through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw to bite back the violent urges the hateful man stirred in him. He refused to look at the child but kept his eyes firmly on Unferth. The Saxon continued, "You will work for me or I will kill this child. His brother's death is on your hands. I wonder if you would...could make yourself responsible for this child's as well?" He smiled, like an alchemist who has set up an intriguing experiment and only has to sit back and watch the spectacle unfold.  
Looking down the road, Unferth realised that most of the goods for that day had passed them by. He gripped the boy hard by the back of his neck and marched him back towards the woods, forcing him into the hands of two mercenaries. "Keep him tight," Unferth instructed, "and take our good Roman friend back to new lodgings. Put him in the hut and guard it well." Gawain remembered the place only too well from when he had visited Lancelot there. Still, it was only what he deserved from a Saxon point of view. Unferth cast the knight a look of irritation and Gawain felt a moment's pleasure amidst the nightmare. He had found the Saxon's chink and he was damned if he would leave it unexplored.

Next chapter to be posted fairly soon. Now if you'd just click that little button there. That's right, the one where you submit review...


	15. Evening Prey

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

See Part one for disclaimers etc.

A big thank you to Arlad, Numen and Anya509 for your kind words of support and encouragement. It makes all the difference! And a mention for Lisa – I hope some rays of sunshine are beginning to reach you. I hope Gawain's suffering is to your taste!

PART 15 : EVENING PREY

* * *

One week passed and the summer sun was cooled in the shadows of impending Autumn. The leaves were already turning by the time Bors & Dagonet led their newly acquired Roman soldiers into the southern realms of Sudergeona. It had been a frustrating ride at best, the knights unable to make so many men ride at the pace to which they had grown accustomed. The journey was slow and, with every night passed idly under the stars, the two men's hearts grew heavy with fear as to what might have befallen their comrades. 

Finally, with the twilight of another day, Dagonet recognised the meeting place the group had agreed upon. It seemed an age ago since they had been here last and the sight of it lifted his spirits. As if reading his mind, Bors cut through his thoughts. "Don't get your hopes up, Dag. That was just the easy bit."

"Hmmph," came the lack lustre response. "Where's Tristan and Galahad? They should have been back to make camp by now."

Bors stared into the gloom of the forest edge, willing his friends to come out and show themselves. The two knights did not need to speak to read one another's minds. Lancelot, Gawain and Arthur were already in peril. It was not unthinkable that Galahad and Tristan might have acted on a hasty plan and found themselves facing a similar fate. Ever the warrior though, Bors was not shaken by this thought. It only set his jaw and made his blood boil at the image their capture produced.

"Make camp here!" Dagonet instructed the band of saddle sore soldiers. They were few in number, but they would be enough to take on the Saxons. As he watched them set about pitching tents, Dagonet could not help but fear how easy it would be to keep their promise to the governor. Could this small group of men, some mere boys, take on battle hardened Saxons and every man come out alive? The likelihood seemed grim.

Dag moved to where Bors was still watching out for Tristan and Galahad. "Bors, these men are no match for the Saxons."

"And you choose to impart this piece of information now?" Bors grunted, already in the same mind himself. "Let's hope we can use them mainly as show and they can leave the real fighting to us."

"I agree, but without Arthur, Lancelot and Gawain, we are few and…" Dagonet's head lifted and he narrowed his green eyes.

Bors followed his gaze. "What is it?"

"There!" Dag pointed a finger in the direction of the woods.

Annoyed that he could not see a thing, Bors grumbled, "There's nothing there. You are like a thirsty man in the desert, Dag. Give it up. They will come soon enough."

"No, it is them!" Dag said, firmly. He waved at the approaching shadow. Then, his jaw dropped as the group gained ground and he whispered, "Arthur."

* * *

The ride back to the meeting point had been a strange one for Arthur. When he was not buried in the fortress of his mind, every moment opening doors he had forgotten, he was looking at the surrounding forest with a strong sense of familiarity. He felt as if he could find his way there without Tristan's guidance yet, when they stopped, Arthur could not choose which path to follow. 

Though they did not ask him outright, the Roman could sense his companions silently looking to him for guidance or approval. Yet, he did not know his own mind. He studied the men while their backs were turned. For certain, Galahad was several years his junior and it took a leap of imagination to envisage him wielding a sword with menace. Tristan, on the other hand, possessed a quiet gravity which was both unusual in a fighting man but instantly made Arthur feel safe. This was belied by the darkness in the man's eyes. The hawk which circled above their heads and occasionally came to rest on Tristan's arm was treated with all the care given to a maiden, yet there was a darkness in the man's eyes which told the Roman he should beware what lay beneath that brooding exterior.

Slowly, the snippets of his life were weaving themselves together into a coherent fabric and Arthur explored them intrepidly. He was a good man, of that he was sure enough. His memories were those of a commander, decisions made with care, comrades' lives lost with sorrow. Rome swam before him with its vast coliseum and civilised society. He recalled sitting in a sunny courtyard, mellowed by the sun, a tablet before him, writing. A teacher was beside him and Arthur remembered the adulation he had felt for that man. Pelagius. He could bask in those memories forever, memories of a time when the whole world was at his feet.

Presently, the three men reached the edge of the forest and campfires could be clearly seen on the darkening horizon. Galahad exclaimed, "Bors and Dagonet are back!"

Tristan nudged his horse forward. "Let us not keep them waiting any longer." His horse burst into a gallop, grateful to be free from the entanglements of the woodlands.

Arthur followed, suddenly uncertain of himself once more. He felt foolish, knowing that all these men knew who he was and yet he was behaving like a deer trapped by curious children. Yet, he was heartened when they reached the camp. Even amongst so many other men, Arthur recognised Bors and Dagonet instantly and, when they saw him, it was clear on their faces that they recognised him too.

"Arthur!" Bors roared, thumping him heartily on the back. "Well, that's one less poor soul to save. Maybe we stand a chance of getting all these men back to the wall alive after all."

Arthur smiled. "Thank you, Bors. I appreciate you going all that distance on my account." He had thought he was merely being polite but the strange expression on Bors' face told the Roman he had said something amiss and the bald man mumbled something about not mentioning it before stumbling off.

Galahad caught Arthur's confused gaze and sidled up beside him. "Don't worry, Arthur. Bors was never one for sentiment. I think he needs a bit of time to get used to the new you."

"The new me?" Arthur repeated.

Galahad merely grinned and trotted to catch up with Bors who was already muttering under his breath to Dagonet. "Good to see you two. Listen, go easy with Arthur. He's been through a lot. The arrow was poisoned and it temporarily took some of his memory. We only discovered him today. He's got a lot of piecing together to do."

Bors grunted in acknowledgement. Dagonet asked, "Can he fight? Is he sound enough in his mind to watch his own back?"

Galahad glanced at Arthur, wandering nomadically through the small gathering of tents. He certainly did not look the picture of leadership. "I do not know. Maybe we should find out."

"What do you suggest?" Dag enquired.

"A little sparring would not hurt him, or any of us for that matter," Galahad replied, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.

Bors laughed. "Yes, you get in there first, little one. He could do with a bit of warming up before the real men."

Galahad's face swung from offence to anger swiftly and he noted, curtly. "I could take you on any day, Bors. I just worry about your skirts getting in the way of your fighting stance." He did not wait for a response. It would only involve plenty of foul language and hot air, neither of which Galahad had much need for.

Arthur stood on the crest of the hill, watching the grass rippling into the distance on the wind. He knew the others would be unnerved by what he presumed to be uncharacteristic behaviour, but he needed a little time alone to adjust once more. With every passing moment, his confidence in his own ability grew and urges mounted within him and told him they were part of who he was. Even when his brain was half absorbed in recalling his memories, the other half was already hatching a plan to save Gawain and Lancelot.

It was during one of these introspective moments that Tristan appeared beside him. Arthur's hand went momentarily to his sword, so quietly had the scout approached. Tristan sensed the tension and tactfully asked, "One of the soldiers caught a pheasant if you'd like some."

"I am not hungry." Arthur was silent again for some time, then finally added, "There is work to be done."

"That there is," Tristan replied, mildly.

"I propose a surprise night attack a few hours before dawn."

"So soon?" asked Tristan.

"The Saxons will not be expecting it and Gawain may have put his own life in mortal peril today. I will not lose him if it can be prevented."

"And the soldiers? They have been travelling hard for several days," Tristan noted. He did not wish to question his commander's plans but neither did he wish to leave it unasked only to find them dead come morning.

If Arthur resented the query, he made no mention if it. "They will have a few hours rest before we move out. That is as much as any man can expect on a mission." Then, he smiled warmly at Tristan, a smile the scout had not seen in many a day. Even Arthur's eyes danced with the old light that he got when he could sense a plan coming into focus.

Tristan returned the smile as warmly as he was capable of, adding, "Are you sure you are ready?"

Arthur took a deep breath and turned to survey the small group of men settling in for the night below him. "You know, Tristan, I think I am."

"Good," came Galahad's voice as he strode to join them. "Because I think you might need some sparring practice before stepping back into the fray."

Arthur laughed lightly. "And you will be the one to show me?"

"What is it with everyone!" Galahad responded, indignantly. "I can't be that bad if I'm still alive after all these years now, can I?"

Tristan patted him on the shoulder as he passed. "Ever heard of luck, my friend." He faced Arthur once more. "Shall I tell the men?"

"No. I think they need to hear it from Artorius Castus." Arthur felt momentary pride in the saying of his name and it brought another smile to his lips. Tristan nodded mutely and rejoined the others at the bottom of the slope.

* * *

As promised, Unferth had relocated Gawain to the dank stone dwelling he had cast Lancelot into nearly a fortnight ago. As further punishment for his stubbornness, the Saxon had insisted he be stripped to the waist and beaten just as his friend had been. Knowing that the knight had visited Lancelot after the beating, Unferth made a point of telling Gawain exactly what was planned for him. It gave him ample time to imagine the agony he would be in by the end of the night. 

Gawain had waited for Unferth to keep true to his word for several hours. He had been so cold that it would be no surprise if his flesh were too cold to feel any of the blows the Saxon guards delivered. A small mercy perhaps. They lifted the heavy bar blocking the door long after sunset. Gawain was yanked unceremoniously to his feet and his arms pinned behind his back by one man while the other laid punch after punch into his chest and stomach. The knight tried his hardest to stifle the cries of pain as the blows rained down on him, finding the same spots time and again. The flurry of punches left him breathless and faint but the worst was not over yet. A hand of iron wrenched his head back by his hair and Gawain could only watch, helplessly, as the Saxon's fist flew at his face. His neck was on fire as his head was whipped from side to side with the force of each blow.

By the time the burly guard released his body, Gawain could not stand. He staggered for a second before slipping bonelessly to the dirty floor. He could feel the warmth of his own blood making a path down the side of his face and onto the floor. Then there was nothing.

The first Gawain knew of his friends' attack was a gruff shout from the fire in the centre of the camp. Unferth set three men to watch from that point every night. The shout was immediately followed by a dull thud and the whisk of a sword being unsheathed. It was unclear who was fighting who, since the Saxons had come to blows amongst themselves on several occasions since his arrival. The disputes were mostly over shares in the spoils from their raids and invariably ended in blood, if not a fatality. To be honest, the blonde knight hardly cared anymore. He just wanted to be free of the pain flowing through every nerve and muscle of his beaten body. Closing his eyes once more, Gawain allowed himself to drift away from the sounds of combat outside and back into the arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

Arthur had rallied the soldiers with such a motivating speech that even he was proud of himself and, by the time the men hailed down upon the Saxon camp, he was feeling almost himself once more. It felt right to be wielding a sword in his hand and Galahad had proven deceptively good at bringing the old Arthur back to the fore. 

The first hut of the camp was taken out in silence and the element of surprise had the desired effect. Saxons rose drowsily from their sleep, knocking over spoils and tripping over one another in an attempt to grab the nearest weapon. Each knight was given control of a few soldiers in an attempt to prevent too many unnecessary deaths. They moved stealthily in small groups. Arthur plunged his sword into one man after another, sometimes a slash to the neck, sometimes a thrust into a defenceless stomach. Even as the warmth of Saxon blood splattered the naked skin of his face, Arthur could feel the adrenaline burning through his veins and it made him feel alive.

Bors was in his element, slicing through men like they were slices of fresh bread and he cut an adequate path for Galahad to dart into Gawain's tent. The young knight could feel a smile tugging at his lips before he even got there and, so excited about releasing his friend was he, that he barely registered hacking the Saxon to pieces just inside the tent flap.

"Gawain!" he called, his eyes darting round the confined space. "Gawain?" he repeated, his voice already fading with the realisation that his best friend was not there. Anger and frustration tore through him and Galahad stormed to the tent door, slicing through the heavy fabric rather than exiting through the flap.

"He's not there!" he called out to Bors.

Bors paused to look at him, his axe buried to the hilt in the writhing frame of a Saxon. "Where else could he be?"

His mind rapidly clearing from his unpleasant surprise, Galahad's eyes immediately locked onto the small hut near the back of the camp where he and Tristan had searched for Lancelot. He shouted back to Bors, "Cover me!" Without waiting for confirmation, the knight ran across the central clearing, cutting down any man who dared cross his path. Luckily for Galahad, the two guards, who probably outweighed him ten times over, had already launched themselves into the fray.

He lifted the heavy bar crossing the door and grabbed a torch flung from the fire onto the ground outside. Galahad opened the door and peered inside. "Gawain?" A split second later, his eyes lighted on the inert shape of his friend lying face down on the ground towards the back of the hut. "Gawain!" he called as he ran and knelt at the man's side. Face down and his hair covering his face, it was unclear what had befallen the knight. His heart in his throat, Galahad lifted the man's shoulder and turned him over.

"Heavens above!" Galahad could barely conceal his shock at the bloody pulp his friend had been reduced to. "Gawain?" he whispered, gently shaking the man's shoulders. It was apparent that the blows to his head had done more than produce the flourish of bruises now swelling there. He was unconscious.

Galahad rested him gently back onto the ground, wishing he had a cloak to cover Gawain's freezing body with. "Gawain? Can you hear me? You must wake up," he urged. He ran a hand gently along the side of his friend's face, ignoring the sticky sensation of blood on his fingertips. "Gawain," he repeated, more forcefully this time.

At last, the blonde knight mumbled incoherently and he flinched unconsciously from Galahad's hand. His young friend persisted, calling his name over and again to bring him back to reality. Finally, Gawain's eyes opened a crack, looking past Galahad's shoulder into the gloom above him.

"Gawain?" Galahad patted the side of his face to help him focus on him. The blue, green eyes followed the voice and latched onto the agitated face staring down at him. The figure was only a blur at first but Gawain recognised the voice well enough. "Galahad?" he croaked, his own voice barely audible even to his own ears.

"Thank the gods!" Galahad breathed.

"Ugh…" Gawain moaned and closed his eyes tightly against the pain shooting through every muscle.

"Gawain…stay with me. Gawain!" Galahad insisted.

"It…hurts…" Gawain fought to overcome the overwhelming desire to surrender to the darkness once more.

"I know," Galahad soothed. "We have to get you out of here. Arthur is back, Bors and Dagonet have brought reinforcements. I need you to get up." He ignored Gawain's mumbled protests and levered the knight up into something resembling a sitting position.

"Aagh!" Gawain hissed, his hand flying to cover his rib cage.

Galahad paused, suddenly losing the will to move his friend when he was evidently suffering so much. "I'm sorry. Maybe we should wait…"

"No," Gawain replied curtly through gritted teeth. "I'll be fine…once…I'm…up." Galahad supported him under his arms and lifted him as best he could, trying not to concern himself with the hisses of discomfort coming from his friend in the process.

It took all his remaining energy to make it out of the hut and onto Galahad's horse without passing out and Gawain could feel himself toppling forwards, only to be caught by a pair of sturdy hands. He looked drowsily down into the blood stained face of Dagonet. A smile flickered across the man's face before he set about with some rope. "I'll tie you into the saddle. Then ride. Can you remember our meeting place?"

Gawain nodded, tiredly. He could not be sure of the spot, especially given his current condition but he knew better than to worry the rest of the men. After all, his own situation was less perilous now than theirs. Dagonet tightened the ropes firmly and gave the horse a hard thump on its rear to get it into action. Gawain gripped the saddle as firmly as he could, allowing the horse to pluck the best course through the dense woodland.

* * *

Arthur felt at one with his sword as he swept through the Saxon camp. It was like an extension of his own arm, every jab finding a belly or neck and spilling blood freely. He barely noticed the droplets which reached his face as he ploughed on. There was no point in trying to capture any of the enemy. They were a hazard waiting to happen if the knights tried to bring any of them back to the Wall. Besides, Rome had her policies and one of those included exterminating any of invaders they met on their way. This particular Saxon band had caused enough strife to warrant being wiped off the face of the earth. Whether Arthur should have been concerned about his own present unquenchable passion for violence he did not stop to consider. Death would claim each and every one of the scourge who had harmed so many of his men, not to mention himself. 

A roar behind him alerted him to another foe and Arthur whirled on the balls of his feet, pulling his sword back in preparation for attack. The Saxon ran with his axe raised in one arm, his entire torso exposed for the Roman's retaliation. Arthur deftly blocked the fall of the Saxon's weapon and swept his own body alongside his enemy's, pulling his sword in his wake and slicing through the man's stomach with one cut. The man screeched as his guts poured out onto the muddy ground and he fell forwards, motionless.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Arthur looked around for his next opponent. His fellow knights had taken care of most of the huts, burning them to the ground to draw out any cowering Saxons. Only one tent remained and Arthur moved towards it, drawing back the flap with the flat of his sword. Candles burned brightly inside and the arrangement of animal skins on the ground were evidence that the place had gone undisturbed so far.

Arthur stepped warily inside, his green eyes darting to each corner in search of a hidden foe, but there were none. At the far end though, sat a lone figure, his long blonde hair half hidden under a warm cloak made of deer skin wrapped around his upper body. The man had his back to the door but Arthur had no doubt that he knew he was not alone. There was only one man the knights knew to be unaccounted for and only one who would take such a risk as to turn his back on a Roman raid.

"You must be Unferth," Arthur said calmly. He was going to enjoy this.

The blonde head turned a little but not enough for the Roman to see his face clearly. "And you must be Arthur."

Arthur chose not to reply and the silence forced Unferth to turn and face his foe straight on. "Yes, I remember you. I have often imagined this moment, this meeting…but perhaps on different terms." Unferth smiled at his own flat joke.

"These terms suit me just fine," Arthur replied curtly.

Unferth screwed his eyes up in a gesture of pain and pointed to his shoulder. "How is your shoulder? I am sorry, well, a little sorry, for that. Had you not been trying to release my prisoner, I might have treated you more favourably. You are a quick one, though. I was almost certain my men would have caught up with you and brought you back to me."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Arthur added, refusing to be drawn into a proper conversation with the enemy, even if he had been vanquished. "Perhaps your men are not as skilled as you thought."

Unferth's unwavering icy gaze bored into the Roman as if trying to absorb every fibre of his being. Arthur could not deny it was disconcerting at best but he had learned to mask his emotions well and steeled himself, returning the stare with equal determination. Unferth smiled at this, clearly enjoying the battle. "So, the moment has come. Am I to meet my death at the hands of the mighty warrior, Artorius Castus? If I am to die, I am glad it is you…the stories they will tell at home."

"I am sure you would, but I will not offer you the mercy of death. You alone will face the governor of the Wall as my prisoner. After that, your fate is out of my hands." Arthur noticed the way Unferth's face dropped at the prospect and the Roman could not help but feel a moment's pleasure that something had, at last, penetrated that smug expression of his.

Growing ever more serious, Unferth took a sip from the cup he had been cradling and swilled the liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. "And my daughter?" he inquired at last.

"Your daughter?" Arthur repeated.

Unferth met his gaze directly but this time something else was hidden in those icy depths. There was genuine concern and Arthur acknowledged that perhaps there was indeed a human being at the heart of this monster. "She was here, in the camp with me." His voice cracked a little as he added, "Would your knights have…?"

"No," Arthur interjected quickly, finishing the question in his head. "They would not. My knights are more civilised than Saxons. If she were here, she will be in safe hands…unless one of your own got to her first."

Unferth hissed through his teeth. "They would not dare, Arthur." He spoke the commander's name with careful deliberation, sounding out each syllable with venom at what he was suggesting. "And what will happen to her?" he asked once more, composing himself as the anger recoiled.

"She will return to the Wall with you. After that, it is the governor's business, but unless she was party to your deeds, she will likely remain unpunished." Suddenly recognising a bargaining tool, Arthur baited, "Of course, that depends on what you can offer me in return."

Unferth raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You wish to bargain with me, sir knight?" He gestured to the treasures stacked up around them in the confined space. "You may take it all, should you wish. I cannot see myself adorning my prison cell with such refinements."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then you have not found your friend, Gawain?" Unferth queried.

"He is found…alive." Arthur could feel his blood simmering once more as he recalled seeing Galahad half carry Gawain to the safety of his mount. Lancelot's face swam into his vision, still blurred with imprecision since he had not seen him in so long. Yet, the image of dark, soulful eyes still rose within him. "Tell me where Lancelot is."

The Saxon offered a half smile, realising that, even now, he had power over his captors. "Hmm, Lancelot." The eyes roamed Arthur's face as he spoke the name, watching to see what emotions it elicited. "I am sorry to say…he is dead."

Arthur could hear the blood roaring in his ears. It could not be true. Lancelot was not dead. He could not be. Coupled with the blow of Unferth's words was the sense of wonderment at how the discovery made him feel. His emotional response was greater than Arthur had imagined, yet somehow it fitted. He had known all along, from the moment he had regained consciousness in Berys' small home and the fragmented memories had filled his mind, that the dark-eyed angel was the greatest of the missing pieces.

Swallowing his emotions, lumped at the back of his throat, Arthur said tersely, "Then your daughter will have to take her chances with my mood." He could not afford to allow this man to see his weakness and, right now, the knight could not think clearly enough to make any bargains. Lancelot was dead. Gone. Arthur could not even recall how they had parted.

Unferth shrugged as if he had passed on the simplest of information. "Well. I have finished my wine. The best I have tasted. I was keeping it for a special occasion, but I think today will be the best I can expect. So, I am ready." He stood and drew the deer skin more closely around himself then moved across the tent to Arthur. Brusquely, the Roman turned the Saxon away from him and bound his wrists tightly behind his back with cord and marched him from the tent.

* * *

Outside, the camp was merely a ruin. Tristan was stamping out the flames which edged too close to the trees, his bow slung lightly across his back. Bors was finishing off the dying Saxons while Dagonet piled stolen goods onto the few remaining carts. Even in his broken state, Arthur registered a second's relief to see them still alive and to see that Galahad was helping a young woman onto the back of a waiting horse. Her flaxen hair and the straight nose told the Roman she could be no other than Unferth's daughter. 

Galahad caught sight of Arthur and steered his horse in his commander's direction. "Gawain has headed back to camp, but I fear he may not have made it alone."

"Go," Arthur consented. "We will not be far behind." He looked pointedly at the Saxon girl, noting the fright in her eyes. "Keep her safe. She is our prisoner." He did not dare say more in hearing of Unferth.

Galahad nodded, the graveness of his expression indicative that he understood what an important bargaining tool Aedre might prove to be. Kicking the horse in the flanks, he trotted into the undergrowth.

* * *

Next chapter impending! Please feed my muse for a muse cannot live on tasty DVD images alone!  



	16. Recovery

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

See part one for disclaimers etc.

CHAPTER 16 : RECOVERY

With no need for stealth or silence, the camp was merry as the first light of dawn broke across the skies. Men accustomed to hard battle were beginning to show the signs of exhaustion but they still had enough adrenaline coursing through their veins to sit up awhile longer. Strong, honeyed mead passed from hand to hand and loud cries of elation could be heard long after the battle was won.

Dagonet and Bors joined in the fun, representing the Sarmatian knights. The Roman soldiers were somewhat wary of the small band Arthur commanded. They carried a wildness within them that no Roman alive possessed. There was an unpredictability which was unsettling and caused many a man to lay his hand upon the hilt of his sword when in Sarmatian company. Even as they fought side by side, the tension was almost palpable. Now, however, Bors could be heard holding forth with bawdy tales that raised roars of approval from all those settled around the embers of the campfire.

The scene mere yards was away was a thoroughly different affair. Arthur had secured Unferth well away from the group but within his eye line. The Roman had wanted to keep Aedre far from her father so that he was unaware of her condition and would, therefore, be easier to bargain with. Yet, Arthur's concern for her safety presented a greater problem. While he knew the decorum of Roman soldiers well, he would not put it past them to rape a Saxon girl. Regardless of what he had said to Unferth back in the tent, Arthur had no intention of harming her.

Leaning his head against the solid wood of the oak tree behind his back, Arthur stared into the forest gloom, his mind mulling over the next course of action. Yet, every time he tried to focus on a strategy, emotions tugged him back to the broken image of Lancelot, lifeless and cold somewhere beyond his reach. Arthur's jaw clenched defiantly, refusing to be drawn further into the notion.

It was in this position that Tristan found him. "Arthur?" he whispered. The commander lifted his eyes wearily to meet the gaze of his sturdy scout. "How are you faring?"

Arthur's eyes drifted once more before taking on a clearer hue. "I am well enough…but I cannot rest yet."

Tristan nodded mutely and seated himself quietly beside his friend and followed Arthur's gaze towards the trees. "There is hope."

"Is there?" Arthur asked, tautly. As he surveyed the countryside all he saw was an eternal swathe of nooks and crannies, every tree looking very much like another, Nature gently erasing all signs of human existence within moments. Finding Lancelot could not be achieved by wielding a sword and acting bravely. It did not take courage, it took skills Arthur would never possess. He saw only futility.

Yet, through Tristan's eyes, there was much to be hopeful for. Every footstep left a sign, a broken branch, and crushed berry, tracks. Coupled with what he knew of the human mind, there were places Saxons would never think or bother to go. There was the distance anyone would bother to travel merely to dispose of a foe and there were places better suited to execution than others. "Ach, you simply cannot see the wood for the trees." Tristan stood, resting a hand momentarily on Arthur's shoulder.

The Roman marvelled at the Sarmatian scout's unwavering ability to shoot warmth into the heart of even the most dismal soul. He only prayed that Lancelot lived to be on the receiving end of it once more. Grimly, Arthur glanced over to where Galahad was tending to Gawain's numerous wounds.

The blonde knight had been in bad shape upon their arrival at the Saxon camp and his rescue was a blessed relief, for one comrade returned to the group alive was heartening. Arthur had recognised the face immediately, despite the bruising, but Gawain had been barely conscious by the time the others returned to camp. The horse had dutifully carried its charge to the edge of the woods where it had waited.

Gawain had been strapped firmly to the saddle but clearly the horse had been eager to escape the sound and smells of blood shed for, when Arthur and his men returned, Gawain was on the ground. One leg was still caught in the ropes which had secured him and the horse had dragged the knight some distance in search of richer grazing.

Galahad was the first to reach him, cutting the rope around his friend's foot. "Gawain?" he urged, placing one hand on the pale cheek. Blood matted in the blonde hair and it was impossible to tell whether further damage had been inflicted by the fall. Tristan knelt beside the distraught Galahad. "Let me see," he requested, mildly. He leaned closer to check for signs of breath. "His heart is strong but he has much healing to do. Let us carry him to the tree. Then you must fetch water me water to clean his wounds."

The pair moved Gawain to a place of greater comfort under the shelter of trees where Tristan continued to oversee the knight's recovery. From his place of refuge, Arthur watched mutely and prayed that his comrade's recovery would, indeed, be swift. Death seemed to hover at the fringes of his existence everywhere he turned and, as he looked towards where Unferth was tethered, the Roman could feel the icy stare freezing his very heart with the power the Saxon still held over him. The one prize Unferth could still steal away from him.

* * *

Unaware that he was in Arthur's thoughts, Lancelot returned to consciousness, his broken body trying to claw its way back to life despite his mind's protestations. The pain was overwhelming, all consuming and barely an inch of the knight's skin had escaped mutilation. The whipping had been bad, relentless flagellation until flesh gave way to blood and exposed muscle. Lancelot had not believed there could be worse torture until Vasil'ev had produced instruments the knight could not even put a name to, fearsome iron implements cunningly devised to cause maximum agony with minimum of effort. 

Within mere days, the knight was reduced to a mere shell of a man, his body beyond repair and his mind beyond salvation. Vasil'ev no longer troubled himself with restraints for his prisoner. Lancelot was unwilling, not to mention incapable, of moving without aid, his every movement marked by a groan or hissing intake of breath. He had tried only once, his strength and determination beyond even Vasil'ev's expectations.

It had been after the branding, the wounds barely finished sizzling, when the knight had lurched from his pallet. Vasil'ev had toyed with him for hours, leaving the young man to suffer in between reheating of the rod in the brazier. Lancelot had bitten his lip until it bled when the red hot metal connected with the flesh of his upper arm, worse still had been the sensation of melting nerves against the tender skin of his neck. However, nothing tore the screams from his throat as the moment Vasil'ev steadily lifted the knight's bare feet one by one and placed the length of the rod against each sole. As the reflection of the glowing metal faded in his eyes, Vasil'ev glanced up at his victim.

Lancelot's screams had expended the last of his energy and his throat was raw, unable to make much more sound. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut as he tried to block out the roaring pain coursing through his body in endless waves of suffering. Vasil'ev returned the poker to the fire and moved until he was in line with Lancelot's face, the young man's head drooping onto his chest, unable to find rest strung up against the wall.

The torturer's dark features had surveyed those of the battered knight with detached fascination. His profession gave him pleasure, the anatomy of the human body delighted him. The tactile nature of skin as it covered the entire body in a sheath of sensations which he could play with. The subjects, victims, were nothing more than practice, another step on the road to discovery. But this one…this one was different. He had uttered the word 'Egveksol', he had heard the stories. Only the people of his own nation knew them, tales he himself had been told in the darkness of wild nights. He could never have foretold his own part to play but the memories of those days before the cold mountain had gone from his heart and mind long ago. The boy and the man he might have become were gone, replaced with a gleaming heart of obsidian, turned to the task of a greater goal. Yet, something in this weakened body struck a chord Vasil'ev wished erased. Beneath the grime, stubble and toned muscles, the torturer saw the boy he once was – the defiant brown eyes, the dark curls softening the angles of his face.

Perhaps it was in that moment of weakness, that moment of disgust at the human emotions still polluting his mind, that Vasil'ev let his guard down. He released Lancelot's bonds, allowing the dead weight of the younger man's body to fall against him as he moved him back to the bed. Turning his back, he busied himself with rekindling the fire glowing weakly in the brazier, stoking light back into the room.

It was a mere shadow at first, a flickering flame leaping from the grate, but it loomed nearer and nearer. Vasil'ev's black eyes pretended to see nothing at first, waiting until he could almost hear the ragged breaths harnessed to avoid detection. Then, in a flash, the torturer turned on his prey. Lancelot had somehow managed to hobble halfway across the chamber, the agony of his effort clearly written across his brow. For a split second, the men merely stood and stared at one another, prisoner to inquisitor. Yet, Vasil'ev was adept at recognising the signs by now. Lancelot already knew he had failed. Still, blind hope and desperation spurred him on and the torturer was shocked when a fist darted out and connected with his mouth, sending a splash of blood against the wall and knocking him to the earthen floor. Vasil'ev brought a hand to his mouth, withdrawing it with interest before licking the drops of blood from his lips.

With a snarl, he launched himself at Lancelot with an uncharacteristic ferocity. Instead of the knight's face now, he saw his own as a youth, the weakness, the betrayal of human emotion embodied now before him. It did not take much to bring the weakened knight down hard and Lancelot's skull impacted with the dirt floor but still he did not let up. Struggling to avoid the flailing hands, Vasil'ev managed to get his body astride the knight's and grabbed the head of curls with both hands, cracking his skull back against the ground once, twice. The second blow stunned Lancelot and he blinked hard, trying to dismiss the dots dancing in front of him. His hands still fumbled feebly for Vasil'ev, tugging on his clothes with a child's strength. It only took a few seconds for the torturer to retrieve the thin wire, wrapped tightly around wooden dowels at each end.

Deftly, he slung the wire around Lancelot's neck, jerking the young man's head up to meet his face. His eyes bulged open, the dark orbs staring up at his strangler with desperation but not submission. The hands tightened on Vasil'ev's clothes, clawing at his arms, but to no avail. He sputtered out a choked cough and the veins stood out on his forehead, the lips slowly losing colour. Vasil'ev refused to let him go, even as the knight's clutch weakened and his hands fell limply to his side, the wire tightened against his throat, drawing blood in red ribbons. Then, the choking wheeze subsided and Lancelot's eyes slid shut, his body limp as a rag doll. Vasil'ev's teeth were gritted, his eyes afire, but still he did not release his prey, not until the torturer clicked back into place. The young boy was gone, only the knight remained, his face tinged with blue, blood dripping from the wire cut around his neck.

Vasil'ev pulled the wire free of the man's flesh, allowing the lifeless head to drop back to the floor. He had killed him, surely. Climbing off the inert body, he laid an ear against his prisoner's chest. The heart was still beating but no breath remained. Vasil'ev knew what he had to do. He had seen his mentor do it on occasion before, placing his mouth over that of his victim and breathing life back into him. Between breaths, he would listen for some sign of return from the beyond. As he did the same for Lancelot, Vasil'ev pondered. Such subjects were rare for they knew what existed beyond the mortal life. Would this knight have the answers?

A shudder signalled Lancelot's return but no amount of coercion could wake him. Vasil'ev knew his time was numbered. There was one last act to inflict on his victim, the eternal suffering.

Lifting Lancelot as if he were precious cargo, Vasil'ev placed him back on the pallet in the corner of the room, being mindful to shackle him even in his unconscious state. Stoking the embers for the last time, he left Lancelot alone. His respite would be short lived.

* * *

Gawain could hear the birds singing somewhere above his head but the ground was hard and unforgiving beneath his aching back and, briefly, he thought he was still in Unferth's prison. Then, he could make out familiar voices nearby – Galahad, Tristan…and Arthur? Fragments of the previous night pieced themselves together in his brain and suddenly Gawain was wide awake. He tried to sit up and groaned as the world swayed sickeningly in front of him. Pain stabbed him in the ribs and he pressed one hand to his side, one to his forehead. 

"You look well," Galahad's voice cut through the throbbing surge of blood in his brain and Gawain cracked an eye open to see his friend squatting beside him, a smile spread from ear to ear.

"I try," he replied, gruffly. Taking a moment to orient himself properly and allow the sharp pain to subside into more manageable aches, Gawain studied his friend more closely. "It's good to see you, Galahad."

Galahad's chirpy grin softened into something more genuine and subtle. "You too, brother."

For a moment, they held one another's gaze until Tristan silently pressed a cup of warm mead into the injured man's hand. Gawain glanced up at the scout to see that a flicker of a smile warmed the taciturn man's face. "Tristan, I take it this is your work." He gestured to the somewhat smelly poultice stuck across his ribs. Although the sticky substance did much to conceal what lay beneath, Gawain could feel the tug of shallow lacerations against his ribs.

"The pain?" Tristan enquired.

"Well, I ache all over and my head's pounding but I think the worst is over," Gawain managed a smile.

"Drink up. It should help." Tristan patted his friend lightly on the shoulder and moved away to leave Gawain and Galahad alone.

"So, aren't you going to ask if we were successful in the raid?" Galahad grinned.

Gawain cast him a withering look. "I may have taken a beating but I'm not blind. Did you kill them all?" Aedre's innocent face sprung into the knight's mind unbidden and he momentarily regretted not asking his friends to take her into their care. He knew the jibes he would have to endure if he mentioned her name and, in his weakened state, Gawain was in no mood to rally back.

"We took the leader alive and a few others. Arthur thinks they should be dealt with at the Wall, maybe Chichester if we cannot take them all."

"Arthur," Gawain repeated, dimly recalling the sight of his commander as he was rescued. "Is he recovered from the arrow wound?" Galahad's brow furrowed but his friend knew the signs all too well. "What is it?" he demanded.

Galahad dug at the soft earth with a stick. "He is sound in body but…" he trailed off, unable to think how to describe Arthur's behaviour at present.

Gawain probed, "But what, Galahad? Finish your damned sentence!"

"The arrow was poisoned and he lost his memory for a time. It is coming back slowly. I think many of the pieces have already fallen back into place, but he is not yet quite himself." Galahad met his friend's eyes with reluctance and the pair shared a silent moment of regret until Gawain shifted himself carefully until he was leaning in a more upright position against the sturdy tree trunk.

He surveyed the camp around him, the very same spot the group had agreed to meet days ago and which were now occupied by numbers much greater than Gawain had anticipated. Soldiers were preparing their packs for the journey back to the north while Saxon prisoners were chain ganged together. The knight's eyes moved to a lone tent at the perimeter of the camp and he narrowed his gaze when a figure stepped out into the sun. Aedre. The bright blue of her wool dress was a stark contrast to the dreary garb of those around her. Her hair hung loose to her waist and it caught in the wind and lifted from her back in wavy strands. She did not appear to be hurt. Gawain was sure none of his comrades would lift a finger to assault a woman but the same could not be said of all those who served Rome.

As if sensing his burning gaze upon her, Aedre suddenly looked up from the fire she had knelt to kindle. She stared straight at Gawain and he wondered if that was a smile playing at her lips. Jolted from his state of voyeurism, the knight looked to where Unferth was still bound to the base of an oak tree. His head was lowered in sleep.

"Didn't Arthur want to deal with him?" Gawain asked, hoping he kept the snarl from his voice.

Galahad follow his friend's gaze to the tethered Saxon. "We still need him for information."

Gawain froze. In his slightly dazed state, he had foolishly believed all was well once more. With Arthur restored, the Saxons reduced to prisoners or food for the worms, it had never occurred to him. He was not yet found. "Lancelot," he breathed.

Hitching his breath, Gawain braced himself and levered up into a standing position, ignoring the way the world swayed hazardously in front of him for a moment. Galahad was at his side and the knight gratefully leaned on him for support. "We must find him. The gods alone know what horrors Unferth sent him to endure."

"We have been doing everything we can but we are at a loss as to where we should look next," Galahad replied. "We don't even know if he is alive."

"That does not matter," Gawain said, sharply. He knew only too well how cruel the Saxons could be but Unferth had been exceptional even for his own demonic race. Lancelot's chances might have been fair if he had been missing for a few days but not several. "Whether alive or dead, we will find Lancelot."

"How?" Galahad blurted out in desperate frustation.

"I know how," Gawain growled, his eyes roving from Unferth to Aedre.

END OF PART 16

Please, please review!


	17. Seek & You Shall Find

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

See part one for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Sorry for the delay once more. I was trying to finish a Dark Angel fic that has been out of action for yonks. Now, with that out of the way, I can return to our lovely knights. I will just say about this part that there is a rather nasty scene with Lancelot, but then I suppose anyone reading this story will have already seen a lot of the gore. His suffering is nearly over though, I promise!

CHAPTER 17 : SEEK AND YOU SHALL FIND

Gawain's pounding head was somewhat relieved by Tristan's warming mead, prompting the knight to believe something a little more potent had been added to the mix. However, he was in no position to complain and he wanted his wits about him now that he knew Lancelot still needed rescuing. He wanted a meeting, he wanted permission to deal with Unferth in his own way. For all he knew, Arthur was still not himself, not to mention that Gawain had spent much longer in the Saxon's company to better understand what would motivate the fiend. Forcing his aching limbs into action up the slope of the hill, Gawain sought Arthur out.

The Roman was giving Dagonet instructions concerning the foot soldiers from the Wall. "They will need an escort and whatever homage you must do to the governor must be paid in full. We are much indebted to his kindness." The green eyes roamed Dagonet's face, searching for understanding and assent.

"Although I am certain the governor would be more easily appeased by your presence, Arthur." Dagonet's voice held hope but no expectation. He knew the work Arthur must still do here in Sudergeona but only wished he could stay as well. Lancelot was like a brother to all of them. It was not in any of their natures to leave one behind.

"The governor must be content with his lot. He will be pleased enough to see the return of all his soldiers, not a life lost in our service. Tell him that Artorius Castus sends his gratitude but that urgent matters still detain him in the south." Once again, those steady eyes penetrated to the core, demanding that his words be heeded. "Will you and Bors do this for me, Dagonet?

"Of course," Dagonet replied, laying a companionable hand on his leader's shoulder, "Just bring Lancelot home safely."

Arthur nodded mutely, the image of dark curls and eyes like the midnight sky flitted across his mind. The face was still no more than fragments to him, but the emotions they provoked tore through his heart like a dagger. He swallowed hard, refusing to be brought low by the weakness and futility of tears.

Gawain approached just as Dagonet made his way back down the hill. "Up and about I see," Dagonet smiled. "Bors and I are taking the men back to the Wall. We will meet you there when you have found Lancelot. May the gods speed you."

Gawain returned the sentiment. "Is Arthur…better?"

Dagonet squinted into the sunlight, his face screwed into a less than favourable expression. "He is more himself than before and is in command of all his faculties. He has just lost some of the…mirth."

"What is there to be merry about? He was closer to Lancelot than any of us. None of us can rest until he is found, no matter what the outcome." Gawain hoped Arthur would have the presence of mind to realise that he had been in the Saxon camp long enough to attain something of a bond, no matter how tenuous, with Unferth. It would be advantageous to use it wisely. "Good luck, Dag."

Reaching the spot where Arthur was absently rubbing his sword with a cloth, polishing it until it cast a silver thread across his face. "Arthur!" Gawain hailed him.

The Roman looked up, fatigue suddenly replaced with a benevolent smile. "Gawain! It is good to see you well."

"You too," Gawain joked. "I am glad the poison had no lasting effects."

"As am I," Arthur agreed, soberly. "There is much I wish to be lucid for."

Hearing the ominous tone in his voice, Gawain launched straight into his speech. "That is why I wanted to speak to you. Lancelot could be anywhere but I have spent much time with Unferth. We have an…understanding. I know you are our commander but…"

"You want to torture him?" Arthur cut in, sharply.

Gawain could barely conceal his shock. He had never heard the Roman speak with such venom before. "No. I think I can extract the information from him, maybe even Aedre knows. She took care of me when I was in the camp."

"She cannot have cared for you too well," Arthur noted, bitterly, looking pointedly at the bruises adorning Gawain's face and neck. The blonde knight fell silent for a moment. He did not know how to proceed. He had stated his case but Arthur was being unreasonable in a way he had never known before. His anger and misery over Lancelot's supposed fate had overtaken any semblance of the rational leader the band had once followed.

The silence was broken when Arthur swept his sword up in front of his face and, for a mere second, Gawain fancied the Roman would cut him down in his pent-up rage. Instead, the sword hovered between them, the reflecting sunlight burning into their retinas. "There is something I have not spoken of. When I arrested the Saxon last night, I tried to bargain with him for Lancelot's life." Arthur paused for a long time, the words refusing to form on his lips. "He told me Lancelot is dead." He pressed his finger along the edge of his sword as he enunciated the last word, drawing small beads of blood from his fingertips.

Gawain opened his mouth to speak but no words would come forth. His stomach flipped violently and he could feel his heart quicken its beat. He felt hot and cold all at once, neither one thing nor the other, able to make no sense beyond the literal words he was hearing.

"Now, do you still ask me if you can deal with the Saxon?"

Gawain turned his gaze upon his commander. "Are you sure? You cannot believe what that beast tells you, Arthur. He toyed with me and Lancelot. We never knew what he had in store next. There are no limits to the man's deviousness. We should not give up hope of Lancelot's salvation." Arthur's eyes stared ahead, betraying nothing. "Please, Arthur. Let me talk to him."

For a long moment, the blonde knight did not think Arthur was going to respond. Then, the Roman turned to him, his green eyes afire with a thirst Gawain had never witnessed before. "Do not give him anything. Nothing."

Nodding his assent, Gawain stood and surveyed the band of soldiers already saddling up and preparing to move out. Unferth still remained bound to the tree, his head leaning back against the trunk. Gawain could almost feel the chill of those dead eyes upon him. He made his way steadily down the hill, directly to Aedre's tent.

* * *

Liquid fire jolted Lancelot awake. It consumed him, drenched every muscle, coursed through every artery and vein, boiling his very blood. His rigid body jerked from the pallet as he tried to drag in one breath then another. Each intake was painful and difficult, trying to claw oxygen into his starving lungs. He could taste something bitter in his mouth and wondered if that accounted for the agonising sensations overtaking his body. They burned, forcing his muscles into twitching spasms and Lancelot clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes closed as he tried to ride out the waves. His breath hitched in his throat, refusing him even the sanctuary of breathing without pain.

Vasil'ev stood nearby, ominously busying himself with an array of shiny, metal instruments laid out. He looked over to Lancelot but did not speak. The knight was unable to do anything other than lie there, his wretched body betraying him with its weakness. He no longer remembered what it was like to feel before the suffering had begun. It was as alien to him as the pain had once been. The faces of his friends were fading from his mind, slowly distancing themselves from him. He had long since lost hope of them ever finding him, even if they believed it worth looking. Lancelot had no concept of how long he had endured the torture, time held no true meaning now, its passage marked only by torture. A second could seem like an hour when a burning brand was pressed against his skin, hours could be days when hanging from a hook by your hands. Besides, the others would never find him. To hope was to give his captor something to play with, fuel for the fire.

The sharpness of the pain subsided into a dull ache and Lancelot just lay there. Vasil'ev had long since dispensed with the manacles during times of rest. He clearly deemed the Sarmatian too weak to take him on. A day before, Lancelot might have proved him wrong. In fact he had. Now it was too late. The knight knew he would never escape this place. As he looked up at the earthen curve of the ceiling above his head, he knew this would be the last thing he would ever see. His days of chivalry, of military prowess had been numbered. Lancelot had always longed for a glorious death on the battlefield, but there was to be no such reward. Life ended here, amid pools of his own blood and torn flesh. Whatever Vasil'ev wanted from him, Lancelot hoped he had found because somewhere deep in his heart, the knight knew tonight would be his last.

As if hearing his very thoughts, Vasil'ev swept across the room to where Lancelot lay and silently handed him a earthenware cup of water. The knight stared up sullenly into the eyes of his murderer but did not move. Vasil'ev lifted his limp hand and pressed the cup into it. Lancelot accepted it and very gingerly shifted himself into an upright position, hissing in a sharp intake of breath as pain lanced through his chest. Once up, he looked hard into Vasil'ev's face, ensuring the torturer understood him. Purposefully, he turned the cup over in his hand, allowing the water to flow onto the ground. Mustering up the last of his strength, Lancelot rasped, "This is finished." He barely recognised his own voice, it was so weak and dry.

Vasil'ev returned the gaze, forcing the knight to stare into those depths of eternal darkness. A smile slowly stole across his lips, the pleasure moving eerily up the muscles of his face until even those dead eyes were lit with an ungodly glow. He nodded, "Ja." Seemingly from nowhere, he produced the manacles Lancelot had come to associate with the tortures. Each time, they had struck fear into his belly but now he felt liberation. It ended right here, right now.

* * *

Gawain hovered uncertainly at the flap of Aedre's tent, waiting for her to emerge. She had kept herself busy all morning, cooking for the soldiers and performing general tasks for her keepers. If she felt resentment and anger towards her captors, she did not show it. Occasionally, her eyes would wander in the direction of her father, lingering on the still form still bound tightly to a sturdy tree.

Pots and pans could be heard clanking together inside the tent and then Aedre's open face peeped out of the flap, catching Gawain's eye. "My lord knight," she exclaimed, coming out into clear view. She pressed a stray strand of blonde hair away from her forehead and smoothed her hands down over the crumpled wool dress she wore. For a moment, Gawain said nothing, unsure of how to proceed in such matters. He was accustomed to serving wenches that he could pull down onto his lap with lewd words in their ears. Aedre might be the daughter of a savage but she was a noble one.

Aedre pursed her lips and glanced down at her dishevelled state, clearly as uncertain as Gawain. "Would you like some broth? It is little more than bones and a few vegetables but it might hit the spot after…" She stopped herself, knowing that whatever she said would be in poor taste.

Gawain's hand moved to rest comfortably on the hilt of his sword. "No," he replied, "thank you", he added as courteously as he could muster. "I…I need your help."

Aedre's smile faded and she nodded, mutely. It was all she should expect from captors, no matter how noble. She felt foolish for even entertaining the notion that a knight should show romantic interest in her. She was now a spoil of war, to be bartered away for the highest profit. "Of course," she managed, her voice constricted in her throat.

"Shall we walk?" Gawain suggested, catching the eye of a group of soldiers taking a break from packing up. The knight was ill at ease standing deep in conversation in front of so many watching eyes with a beautiful hostage.

Aedre's eyes followed his gaze and then his thoughts. "Yes."

Gawain offered his arm to her, unsure of how he was supposed to proceed but feeling instinctively that it was the right thing to do. Aedre was sweet and innocent, a mere pawn in her father's ruthless campaign. She did not deserve to be treated with the same lack of respect Unferth garnered. Leading her away from the watching eyes, towards a small outcrop of silver birch trees, Gawain stopped once they were out of sight. "Madam, Aedre," he stumbled over the address.

Smiling shyly, Aedre boldly came to his aid. "I think I already know what you might wish from me."

Gawain's blue eyes narrowed, fixing her with a suspicious gaze. "You do?"

"Unless I am mistaken, the whereabouts of your friend are as yet unknown to you. Were I a man in your situation, I would use what little bargaining power I had to find out. You wish to use me to get to my father." Aedre's eyes danced with a ferocity Gawain had not expected to see.

"Then that answers my first question. You yourself do not know where Lancelot is being held." He held her gaze, determined to understand something of this creature before him, so full of strength and good will.

"I am sorry that I do not." Aedre's hand shot out to grip Gawain's arm, her almond shaped nails digging into the thick fabric of his tunic. "Please believe me when I say that, if I but knew, I would tell you in an instant." Her eyes were wide with desperation.

Gawain curled his lips back in a semblance of a smile, trying to reassure her, before prising her fingers from his arm. He took the hand in his own. "For reasons beyond reason, I believe you, Aedre. Whether Lancelot is alive or dead, we must find him. Understand that he was like a brother to Arthur, to all of us. What your father did is…" Aedre's eyes dipped suddenly but Gawain had already caught the glimmer of tears there. "I am sorry if this is hard to bear but…" For a moment, the knight studied the top of her head, the golden strands of hair lifted by the breeze from their maidenly plaits.

She was so young, so innocent. Then, Lancelot's face would swim into his mind and Gawain knew that he had to be strong. He had to do whatever it took to see his friend safe again. He continued, more fiercely now. "Aedre, your father is our enemy. His execution is more than likely, almost a certainty. I would urge you now to make the right decision. You are on British soil, under Roman rule. You have a choice for your future. I do not need to tell you what each path might entail, but if you save the life of one knight, your lot will be much improved." Aedre made a small whimpering noise but did not lift her head. Gawain released her hand and said, stiffly, "Do you understand?"

Aedre's hand lifted to her eyes and she dabbed at her nose before nodding, solemnly. Gawain reached forward and lifted her chin with one callused finger. He smiled truly now. "Thank you."

* * *

Lancelot came around slowly from the blow that had knocked him senseless. The first thing he noticed was how dry his throat felt and he swallowed carefully. The bruises and lacerations on his neck from strangulation caused him to wince as he felt small particles of dust and dirt move down his gullet. Vasil'ev must have extinguished the torches as, even through closed lids, Lancelot could not see the shuddering flicker they emitted.

For some time, he just lay there, eyes closed, allowing his breathing to come in the shallow gasps that were the only way he could get air without pain. Then, he opened heavy eyes, sticky from sleep, but all that lay ahead of him was darkness. Blinking hard, Lancelot tried to shake off the dimness he imagined to be caused by his weakened state, but the motion had no effect. Slowly, he became aware of his own body once more. He felt groggy, drugged, as Vasil'ev had done to him once before. Lancelot couldn't help but be grateful for that small mercy since he was unaware of any pain. He knew there should be some, that he should be in agony. Nothing that monster ever did to him was pain free. It was with this in his mind that made Lancelot even more uneasy. What did Vasil'ev have in store for him that he was allowing him some respite now?

Lancelot flexed his fingers and hissed in a breath when shooting pains ran up from the tips all the way to his brain. Memories came rushing back to him, of tiny blades being shoved under his fingernails, each one administered with care and precision to cause maximum pain. Lancelot recalled struggling away from the vice his hand had been pressed into as each finger was 'treated'. He could still feel the stickiness of congealing blood between each digit and, prepared for the pain, tried to lift his left hand once more. It lifted an inch or two before meeting the coarse cord of rope binding him to what he realised was wood beneath him.

Again, Lancelot blinked into the darkness, feeling a wave of panic rising inside him. The air seemed thin and heady and the knight was sure he was being held in some confined space, but he had no way of confirming anything. The drug he had been given was strong but it was wearing off. With each passing moment, Lancelot became increasingly aware of his own suffering and choked back a cry, knowing no one would help him. It would only alert Vasil'ev and probably bring more woes upon him.

Lancelot had imagined his right hand to be similarly restrained but, when he tried to lift it, he found himself able to move it freely. The blades Vasil'ev had slid under his fingernails were definitely still there. In his drugged state, he could feel with detachment how his nails were levered away from each finger and the blunt pressure of foreign objects against the nail bed. He knew it would hurt like Hell but Lancelot wondered if he could extract the blades with his teeth and use them to cut his other hand free.

Lifting his hand towards his face, his fingers impacted with crudely cut wood directly above his head. Startled, Lancelot's breath hitched in his throat and horror spread through every vein. His heart thumping against his ribcage, the knight moved his hand over the wooden surface, ignoring the splinters as he struggled to find the parameters of his new prison. Gods, no! he thought when his fingers made contact with wooden side panels joining the lid to make a box. Vasil'ev had indeed finished with him. He was buried alive. A whimper escaped Lancelot's throat and a whispered prayer to the gods. Anything but this. He could not die like this. For a brief moment, his panic threatened to overcome him. He screamed at the top of his voice, cracked as it was. "Noooo!" The scream fell short with no echo, trapped in the space only big enough for his own body. Hearing his own voice only served to remind Lancelot how alone he really was. Nobody could hear him. He was already dead to the world.

His warrior body and brain willed him to fight and his fingers scratched at the wooden surface in desperation, oblivious to the further injury the coffin did to them. Lancelot could feel hot tears in his eyes, spilling over to run over his cheeks and into the dark mats of his hair. He moved sharply and could not stifle the cry of pain it drew from him. Even old injuries still caused him considerable pain but this was new. It was a stabbing pain his abdomen and Lancelot swallowed hard, afraid of what his searching fingers might find. Lifting a trembling hand to the offending spot where it struck something protruding from the skin. Fumbling in the darkness, Lancelot recognised the feel of a leather bound hilt with the blade firmly embedded in his flesh.

Recoiling from the gross violation of his own body, Lancelot had a growing awareness of other aches sharpening into pain all over him. The drug was wearing off too fast, each slight shift against the wooden base sent convulsions through him. Hardly daring to discover the extent of Vasil'ev's madness, Lancelot allowed his fingers to explore the rest of his torso only to discover with horror two more blade handles, one in his shoulder, another in the toned flesh of his left side. Vasil'ev had impaled him, taking care to avoid any vital organs. No, Lancelot would not have the mercy of death from blood loss. He would suffocate, enduring immeasurable pain for its entirety.

Trying to even the shallow breaths he was taking, Lancelot could only lie there, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, feeling everything.

END OF PART 17


	18. Obscurity & Darkness

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

See Part 1 for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : I'm quite sure they didn't have CPR in those days but, for a good H/C fic, you need certain components and I wasn't going to let the near death experience end my story in such an untimely way!

Once again, I can only apologise for my rubbish time management skills and hope that someone still wants to read this. It's all Lancelot from here on out, though!

CHAPTER 18 : OBSCURITY & DARKNESS

Gawain watched the shadows move like a puppet play across the thin fabric of Aedre's tent. He could see her kneeling before her father, her hands reaching out to him in supplication. Unferth did not respond, whether out of resolve or because his hands were bound in front of him, the knight could not be sure. Her head bowed forward but Gawain could not see if her lips were moving.

From his vantage point several yards away at Galahad's campfire, Gawain allowed himself to experience a pang of guilt for what he had forced Aedre into. Had he memories of his own father, he wondered if he could have betrayed his cause, no matter how hard it might have been to live with. A woman's lot was indeed a miserable one when she had no sway over her future. Even now, as a prisoner, she was being used as a pawn to settle relations between Saxon and Roman.

"Gawain?" Galahad proffered a cup of water. "Care to come back to the land of the living?" he jibed but his eyes followed Gawain's to the tent. "How do you think it is going in there?"

Gawain turned back to the fire. "Well, I hope."

Galahad grimaced, "She has a monstrous task to persuade him. From what I hear, that man is a demon in human clothing."

"Aedre knows what she is up against," Gawain stated bluntly. "I trust her." Before the words had left his lips, he could already hear the good-natured jokes about his relationship with Aedre ringing in his head. Thankfully, they did not come. Galahad knew him well enough to avoid ruffling his feathers in times of crisis.

"I just can't stand all this sitting around," Galahad grumbled, looking around at the empty camp site which had been vacated mere hours ago by Dagonet, Bors and the soldiers. Tristan was absorbed in whittling something on the opposite side of the far, seemingly oblivious or disinterested in what the pair were discussing. Arthur was sitting a little distance away from the group, his back turned to them, keeping watch over the tent so that Unferth would not escape. "And I wish everything was as it used to be," he added, staring at the back of their leader's head.

Gawain caught his glance and nodded. "It will be, in time. We just need to get Lancelot back."

"But will that make it better?" Galahad turned to his friend, uncertainty shimmering in the depths of his blue eyes. "If Lancelot is dead, then what will become of Arthur? He is supposed to be leading us, Gawain! Yet, he is fit for nothing but revenge! How can we follow that?"

Gawain tried to placate him, wishing to spare Arthur Galahad's griping. "He needs to see this through, that is all. Once it is over, one way or the other, he will move on. We have all suffered loss, Galahad. Arthur knows what he must do. His duty will see him through."

"We _have_ all suffered loss, but not like this. Lancelot will not have died an honourable death on the battlefield. He will have died in agony, beaten down by a merciless torturer." Galahad's voice rose in frustration.

Tristan's ever calm voice sailed across the fire. "Enough, Galahad. What's done cannot be undone. We can only do the best with what we have."

Galahad pursed his lips, feeling momentarily annoyed by his comrade's true words. The group was silenced by Arthur's approach, his footsteps barely audible on the soft, damp grass. "Galahad, will you help me secure Unferth again. He has finished talking to his daughter."

Gawain stood, asking the question on everyone's lips. "And?"

"Aedre would like to speak to you," Arthur said, his green eyes searching Gawain's face for some understanding of what had passed between his knight and the Saxon girl. Gawain appeared uncomfortable under his scrutiny and moved quickly past the Roman towards the tent.

* * *

Gawain swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat. The mead he had drunk only moments before seemed to have lost its power already. He knew he had to face Aedre. It was his request that had put her in this situation and, no matter how he wished to escape it, Gawain knew he had to look into those corn blue eyes and admit the pain reflected there was his fault alone. As he approached her tent, the knight saw a flash of her dress, long hair coming loose from its binds as it twisted down her back. She was facing away, her body hunched and tense, her suffering evident in her stiff composure.

Making as much noise as he could, Gawain entered the tent, uncertainly. "Aedre?" The body remained hunched forward but there was no answer. "You wanted to speak to me."

One hand lifted from where it was clenched in her lap and swiped at what Gawain could only assume were tears. Her voice was trembling when she spoke. "This thing that you have asked of me…I want you to know that I loved, love, my father."

"I know," Gawain replied as Aedre finally turned to face him. "I know you did." He wished he had not spoken those last words in the past tense and he almost faltered over them as Aedre had done seconds before. The truth, however, was undeniable in the Sarmatian's mind. Unferth would be dead when he reached the Wall, if nothing 'accidental' befell him before that destination. Gawain knew he did not need to tell Aedre that. She was clever enough to recognise the ferocious anger barely veiled beneath every Roman face around her. "I cannot change the course of your father's fate, Aedre, but I can give you hope for your own future."

The trembling fingers slid lightly across her cheeks once more, wiping at the moisture still lingering there. She nodded, understanding only too well Gawain's predicament. He might have shown her kindness but, to his fellow warriors, she was nothing more than a Saxon spoil, a haughty princess to be taught humility. "A future with these moments sealed into my past, into my heart." Gawain did not speak and, for that, she Aedre was grateful. "Gawain, you have shown me respect and care…and I will always be grateful that I did not share my father's fate because of you. But know that what you have asked me to do today was choose. Your friend and my own flesh and blood." Suddenly, her eyes flashed angrily towards the knight. "Never forget which I chose and who I did it for." Tearing her gaze from his, she swung her cloak up around her shoulders and ducked out of the tent flap.

Gawain felt his heart lurch in his chest, guilt flooding his veins but followed in quick succession by a surge of adrenaline. Aedre had succeeded in finding Lancelot's whereabouts and the hunt would soon be on. He followed her lead and quickly assembled his fellow knights. "Get the horses!" he barked to whoever was in earshot.

Arthur appeared by Gawain's side. "What is it?"

"We are going to find Lancelot," Gawain replied, stiffly, as he watched Aedre mount one of the spare mares.

* * *

One hour slipped into the next, compacted trees giving way to rolling hills and finally flat plains. On several occasions, Aedre paused to regain her bearings and Arthur brought his horse up alongside Gawain's. "You know this girl better than any amongst us. Do you believe she is doing as she says? Could this be a wild goose chase to save her own hide?"

"It would not save her hide long enough to make it worth her while," Gawain murmured in reply. "I believe she is doing her best. Her father is lost to her and she has no one else in the world. All she can hope for is to curry favour with us and avoid death at the hands of angry Britons." Arthur nodded in agreement but his agitation at the uncertain prospect of finding his comrade were evident in the firm clench of his jaw and the caution laid bare in his green eyes.

Whether she heard the exchange, Gawain could not be sure, but Aedre turned at that moment, casting a backward glance at the men quietly conversing. The blonde knight couldn't help but notice how the light in her eyes had altered since the Saxon capture, her face no longer beautiful but haunted and gaunt. He doubted she even had the reserves to imagine any life beyond these moments, let alone hatch a plan to escape three seasoned warriors.

The plains began to take on strange boils, sudden lumps in the land telling of a long dead king's burial. Some were long barrows, crude entrances made from huge stones placed there by giants centuries before. The afternoon light was shedding its brightness in favour of greying hues and the knights knew they did not have much longer before the dim light of dusk would bring them to a halt. The last thing they wanted was to put off Lancelot's rescue for another day. Whether he was alive or dead, they wanted him in their custody.

Gawain urged his horse forwards, alongside Aedre. "How much further?"

"This is the place," she replied, curtly. "He is here."

Gawain's head whipped back and forth as he tried to see what Aedre was talking about. "Where? Where?"

"In one of these barrows. My father said I would recognise the place when I saw it. I did not think I would but now I recognise some features. That stone…" She pointed to a megalith standing erect several yards up ahead. Aedre jerked on the reins suddenly and dismounted. "We stopped here once. My father and I. I tethered my horse there and he…" Her voice trailed off as she turned in a full circle, trying to get her bearings. "…I waited for him. He told me I could not follow…"

Impatient with these wistful memories of time spent with Unferth, Gawain asked abruptly, "But where did he go, Aedre?!" She shot him a wary glance and the knight could see the fear in those eyes once more. He tried to soften his tone, in spite of his desperation. "Can you remember which barrow your father used?"

Aedre moved to the megalith and stood stock still, seemingly oblivious to the three knights, now all dismounted, standing impatiently before her. Then, in a flurry of action, she ran forwards to one of the mounds and the stone in front of it. She began to pull at the huge rock as the three men ran forward to aid her. "Here! He went down in here!" With the efforts of four people, the rock quickly gave way and was cast aside without ceremony.

Arthur barged forwards and peered into the gloom. "Tristan, get the torches." He looked up at Gawain, their eyes meeting with mutual apprehension. The moment had finally come, after what seemed an age. Memories of the ride to the south dimly flickered and flashed across Arthur's mind and dark eyes anchored his mind. It felt like he had never actually seen this man. It was like a vision, the memory of being with Lancelot was so real but he still struggled to picture his face. Now he was about to see it again, for what felt like the first time.

As Tristan pressed the lit torch into his hand, Arthur took a deep, steadying breath and led the small party down the claustrophobic earthen tunnel leading underground. Gawain followed. Tristan took a moment to collect a leather pouch from his saddlebags. Worst fears aside, Lancelot was probably in a poor state. While he did not have much in the way of utensils, Tristan always kept some herbal concoctions to alleviate pain. Returning to the tunnel entrance, the scout turned to Aedre. "Wait here with the horses." The girl nodded, mutely and stood her ground. Tristan knew she did not have the power or the will to trap them inside the barrow.

The tunnel grew narrower and Arthur was forced to discard his sword halfway down for collection later as he struggled to fit along the narrow passage. Finally, the small group reached the womb of the mound. Swinging his torch around the space, Arthur noticed the sconces on the wall and each knight lit the torches in them. Tristan held his hand close to one. "They have not been extinguished long. Whoever was here is not far out of reach."

"Lancelot?" Gawain called, knowing the call would probably go unanswered but unable to withhold the cry to his fallen friend. Even if Lancelot could hear him, that might be enough. The ground showed signs of footsteps before them, no more than two or three men at most and a small wooden table stood in one corner, holding a pot still damp with liquid.

"Tristan, what is this?" Arthur asked, holding the bowl out to his friend.

Tristan sniffed curiously at the sticky liquid and recoiled. "The main ingredient is black walnut…" He carefully put the bowl aside, ensuring none of the muck got on his fingers. Arthur gave him a querulous look. "It causes temporary paralysis." He needed to say no more. If Lancelot had been held here, he would no doubt have been a feisty prisoner. Anyone with a penchant for torture would need strong hands to keep him down. Such a potion would be the perfect solution.

There was a second room ahead and Gawain paused in the doorway of it then clasped one hand over his mouth and nose, unable to stifle a gasp of disgust. Arthur was at his side in seconds and almost gagged on the smell issuing from within. "What is that?!" He needn't have asked. Many years of warfare had welcomed him to a new realm of sensory joys, not least of them the reek of rotting, burning and charred flesh, the thick scent of blood, the stench of men's bowels vented in the final throes of death. Every one of those could be found in the bowels of this terrible place.

Gawain drew his sleeve across his lower face and stepped through the doorway, swinging the torch around the confined space. He was feeling the claustrophobia of the place more than ever, nausea swelling up from his stomach. Fighting back the urge to vomit, the torchlight glinted off metal near the back of the room.

Arthur caught sight of it, too, and raised his torch alongside Gawain's. "Gods have mercy," he breathed when recognition of what they were looking at dawned on the three men. Torture instruments of every known kind and some unidentifiable even to warriors were lined up on hooks against the wall. Tristan retrieved his knife and moved closer to examine the tools more closely, making Gawain grimace that his friend seemed so oblivious to the cloying smell sticking to their very clothes. Lifting some pincer contraption with the tip of the blade, Tristan glanced back to his comrades, then ran one finger against the metal before bringing it away wet. "Blood, and recent."

"Then where is he?!" Arthur roared in frustration.

Gawain removed his sleeve from his face, slowly becoming sickeningly accustomed to the acrid smell all around them. "Look," he said and the others tracked his gaze to a narrow pallet against another wall. Shackles were clearly visible, riveted into the packed, earthen walls. Beside the bed was an iron frame, also adorned with shackles for wrists and ankles. It did not take a genius to understand what its purpose had been.

Arthur's jaw twitched with fury as he struggled against his feelings of helplessness, his hand tightly balled at his side where his sword would normally be. Gawain kicked at the ground, trying to vent his own rage when what he wanted was to kill the beast who had inflicted such suffering on his comrade. Somehow Arthur was holding it together but Gawain failed miserably to achieve the same. He opened his mouth and, from somewhere within the depths of his soul, a roar issued forth and his fists flew at the wall with uncompromising force. Again and again his fist met with compacted earth, his mind refusing to acknowledge the pain in his fingers and knuckles. Even when his voice finally failed him, his attack on the wall did not relent until strong arms reached around his chest and hauled him bodily away.

Arthur's voice reached through the blind rage. "Gawain, stop! Stop it! You'll bring the whole place down and bury us all! Gawain!" Finally, the blonde knight's body ceased resisting and slumped breathlessly against his commander. For a few moments, the two simply stood there, Arthur's arms still firmly locked around his friend's chest, neither willing to give up the moment of reassurance that took the edge off the despair nagging in both their minds.

Tristan, ever composed, had remained at a distance throughout, but now he stepped forwards to the battered section of wall. His knife once again at the ready, the scout loosened a few more clods of earth and tapped the space within. Instead of meeting more dirt, there was a scrape followed clearly by a hollow tap. "There is something in the wall," he declared.

Arthur released Gawain and instantly looked around the room for something to hack away at the wall with. Resourceful as always, Tristan pulled his own sword from his belt, leaving it in the scabbard. Turning it hilt downwards, he thrust it at the wall with all his might and the sound of splintering wood could clearly be heard. Tentative but already sure of what he would find, Tristan's fingers pulled at the pieces of wood at eye level. He moved back when he felt the spongy touch of rotten flesh against his fingertips and smelled the reek of it in his nose. "Buried…"

"Is it him?" Arthur asked, his voice thin and fractured. The commander had been prepared for almost anything, but not this. He could not watch as Tristan clinically used his sword hilt to hack the wood open further down, seeking the body for identifying marks.

Finally, he sighed, "No, it's not Lancelot."

Gawain seized upon the implications immediately, methodically starting at the doorway as he ran his hands along the walls, feeling for any abnormal lumps or bumps. "Then we've got to find him!" Twice he bashed at the walls in futile attempts to find his friend and only finding years old skeletons. Arthur and Tristan followed suit, each one taking care not to dislodge too much earth to cause any kind of collapse.

"Here!" Tristan called out. "The earth is wet here. Someone has smoothed the surface of the wall again. This must be the most recent." Each man took a different portion of the wall from floor to ceiling height, working on removing earth as quickly as possible without actually bashing through the wood and potentially harming Lancelot more. No one dared to admit that every sign pointed to the fact that he was already dead.

After what felt like an age, metal hit wood. Arthur and Gawain stood back to let Tristan do his work as the most careful and gentle of the three. The scout carefully carved through the wood to make a window at what they anticipated to be Lancelot's head height, knowing he would be slumped. The wood came free with a crack and all of Arthur's fears were confirmed when the dark curls of his best friend were clearly visible through the hole.

Tristan dropped his knife unceremoniously, moving his hand to rest against Lancelot's pallid cheek. "Lancelot?" he whispered. "Lancelot!" he urged, louder now. There was no response and the scout's fingers travelled down to his friend's jaw and then to the soft flesh of his neck. "I cannot feel anything."

"We've got to get him out of there," Arthur mumbled, staggering forward, dazed. Gawain joined him and they worked until the whole of the coffin was visible. The pair yanked hard on the planks of crude wood until enough came loose to free Lancelot's body. The dark haired knight fell forward limply and Arthur only just stepped forward in time to catch him and lower him to the earthen floor.

"What can you do?" The commander's green eyes met Tristan's in desperation. "Help him," he croaked through a dry throat.

Tristan wasted no time, assessing the pace of his lifeblood once more. "His heart is not beating." The scout interlaced his fingers and pressed hard down onto the knight's chest over and over, then gestured to Arthur. "You must breathe into his mouth. We must bring his body back to life."

Uncertainly, Arthur did as he was told. He parted Lancelot's lips, idly noticing how cold and blue they were. He followed Tristan's curt instructions time after time, methodically breathing into his fallen comrade's mouth while the scout massaged his unbeating heart, willing it into action once more. Suddenly, Tristan bent forward, close to Lancelot's chest. "Sssh!" he hissed when Gawain questioned him. The scout moved Arthur aside and shifted up to Lancelot's head, waiting for the tickle of breath against his cheek. It was barely discernable even so close but there nonetheless. "He is breathing," Tristan sighed in relief.

The three knights felt a moment's relent from the constant fear and worry before Tristan set about assessing the extent of Lancelot's other injuries. At first, it had been hard to tell the damage where the tunic covered his torso. Now, the evidence of his torture was becoming frighteningly clear and Arthur was beginning to realise what a miracle it had been that they had managed to bring Lancelot back at all. The most obvious sign was three knife hilts protruding from Lancelot's body, in his shoulder, his left side and his abdomen. Arthur had felt them when he had lowered his friend to the floor. Blood still leaked from the wounds, a sign at least that Lancelot was still alive. It made the Roman wince just to look at the bloody hilts, knowing that much of that blood would have been Lancelot's panicked attempts to get them out. The commander struggled to suppress the image of the dark-haired Sarmatian buried alive, his hands fumbling blindly at the knives embedded in his flesh, not knowing that he would ever be saved. Both he and Tristan knew better than to remove the offending articles until they were equipped to stem the blood flow better.

A line of caked blood, cutting a deep circular groove into the soft flesh of his neck showed that he had been garrotted, its double wound implying its infliction on more than one occasion. As Tristan's hands moved down the inert, emaciated body, it became clear that hooks, knives, brands and countless other sharp implements had been used on Lancelot's tender flesh. Imagining the horror of enduring such torture, possibly paralysed and unable to even move, was difficult for Arthur and the others to even begin to digest. So, they tried not to think beyond the need to help their friend.

Almost unconsciously, Arthur reached for Lancelot's arm, needing to touch him after so long. He recoiled with horror when he examined his friend's hand more closely. The deep gouges where Lancelot had clearly fought his manacles were raw and bloody but it was his fingertips that drew the Roman's attention. Lifting the limp hand closer to the light, he peered at the slender fingers and let out a gasp, immediately drawing Tristan's attention. The pair leaned close and Gawain brought a torch to allow better inspection. "Hold his fingers steady," Tristan instructed as Arthur held Lancelot's palm in his own, using his other hand to steady the bony fingers while the scout carefully pulled back the pads of skin on his fingertips. Gently, he tugged at something embedded under the nails, drawing back into the light with a sliver of sharpened glass in his palm.

"That son of a whore!" Gawain exclaimed. "Whoever did this came from the very bowels of Hell."

Tristan did not reply but carefully withdrew four more slivers, one from each finger tip. He lifted the hand on his side of Lancelot's body and grimaced when he realised that the same had been done to the knight's other hand. Throughout, Lancelot was still and silent as the grave they had pulled him from.

Arthur looked to Tristan for a prognosis. The scout knew what he was asking. "Arthur, what he has been through…. We must prepare for the worst."

The Roman bowed his head, willing the situation to be different but knowing it was asking more than Tristan could give. "We have to get him out of here. If Lancelot dies, it will be in the arms of those who love him under the blue skies of freedom, not in this tomb!" Even through the viciousness of his words, his hand slid lightly up to his unconscious friend's cheek. The dark eyelashes stood out starkly against the cold pallor of his skin, dark tendrils of hair curling childlike against the hollows of his cheekbones. Bruises adorned his temples, a crown of purple and grey. But those dark eyes that haunted Arthur's sleep and waking, they were sealed in another world where the Roman could not follow.

END OF PART 18

Please, please review! It is the only thing that spurs me on to write another part and it only takes a second. If you've made it this far, the best is yet to come for Lancelot fans, I promise!


	19. Sweet Return

ALL MUST LOSE THEIR WAY

By Allegra

AUTHOR'S NOTE : Thank you to my reviewers. You are the greatest! In response to Mew's comment that the violence was too incredible, I totally agree with you! But, ultimately, this story was started with the sole purpose of building up to massive Lancelot angst and H/C. The last chapter was the portal into soap opera land, I'm afraid! I hope you can suspend your disbelief for the rest of the ride!

CHAPTER 19 : SWEET RETURN

Gawain supported Lancelot's legs while Arthur took his arms and Tristan led the way out of the barrow with one of the torches. Aedre was waiting expectantly at the mouth of the mound, her cloak drawn tightly around her thin frame, the dusk wind whipping at her face. The three knights had not realised how quickly the time had passed in their endeavours below but it was clear that the last of the light was fading.

"It will soon be dark," Arthur noted as they arranged Lancelot's lifeless limbs on the bed roll the Saxon girl had prepared for them.

Tristan tucked a second blanket around the knight's wasted frame, taking care not to shift the blade handles and cause further damage. He glanced up at the skies. "It will be a cloudy night, too. We should set camp here."

"What?" Gawain exclaimed in surprise. "Lancelot needs a warm bed and the care of an experienced apothecary. No offence, Tristan. We need to find a village." His eyes wandered to Aedre, hoping she would provide the answers.

She stood at a distance from the group, unsure of how closely they linked her with the demise of their friend. "I know of no villages. I stayed at the camp."

Tristan continued, "We need to light a fire quickly. What little heat remains in his body is already diminishing. We cannot afford to lose him once more." The shuffle of bodies around him told him that the other two knights had already set about the task, leaving him alone with Lancelot. Once back in the open, he had been able to retrieve his second, larger pack of supplies, containing a comprehensive array of tools and tonics. Tristan allowed his hand to hover gently over the knight's forehead and anxiously noting that the skin was cold and dry to the touch. Whatever fever his inflictions had brought on, Lancelot had endured them, moved beyond them to a place more dangerous.

Lifting the knight's head, Tristan attempted to trickle a little water into Lancelot's mouth. He met no resistance but no acceptance came either and the liquid merely ran from the sides of the man's swollen lips and Tristan was forced to give up. Once the fire was lit and up to a reasonable temperature, he would do something about the knife wounds but, until then, he was limited to cleaning up the superficial injuries. Next, he turned his attention to the cruel cuts deep below the cuticles of Lancelot's fingernails. Using a little of the water in a wooden bowl, Tristan took a rag from his pack and gently lifted his comrade's hand in his own, extending the limp fingers for a clearer view. He smoothed the dampened rag over Lancelot's fingertips, rubbing as hard as he dared to remove the crusted flakes of blood from each one. As he reached the cuts themselves, Tristan swabbed lightly and took a pot of unguent and dabbed it carefully onto the infected areas before binding each tip with fresh strips of cloth he had in his reserves.

Contented that the first hand was suitably tended to, Tristan moved onto the other side for the same treatment. One digit was out of alignment and the swelling which still remained there told the scout that it must be broken. He felt along the joint, prodding lightly then he grasped the finger at the knuckle and the tip, giving a sharp tug until he felt the bone click. Throughout his ministrations, Lancelot did not stir. Tristan took in the lineless face, the knight's youth suddenly clear to the older man. His stillness was so complete that Tristan found himself leaning close to the young man's chest once more, checking for the rise and fall that told him Lancelot lived yet. The flutter of his heartbeat in his chest was fragile proof at best but it was enough for the scout to cling to.

Gawain, Arthur and Aedre had already started to build the fire by the time Tristan had tended to Lancelot's hands and the Saxon girl had begun a search for any food in the vicinity. Tristan set the wounded knight's hand beneath the blanket and beckoned to Arthur. "Arthur, I need you to do something for me."

The Roman was at his friend's side in seconds. "What would you have me do?"

"Rub Lancelot's chest and extremities. The fire will take some time to heat up enough to do him any good. He is already cold to the touch, any colder and his heart might fail again. I need to make a salve to protect the open wounds from dirt and infection." Tristan peeled back the blanket concealing the extent of Lancelot's chest injuries and moved his hands in a massaging action across the bony ribcage and upper chest, then moved to his arms. "Like so."

"I can do it," Arthur nodded, shifting Tristan aside in his eagerness to do something to help. He cringed inwardly at the marks on his friend's torso, barely allowing an inch of untouched flesh to show beneath the dark welts of a whip, the weeping wounds of burnt skin and the narrow scores from a knife. "Lancelot, you must live…" he murmured, barely aware that he had spoken out loud.

Gawain built up the fire as quickly as nature would allow and soon the flames were licking the dry kindling and reaching for the sky with firm assurance. Aedre worked to produce some kind of nettle soup with what little water she could find and a helping of young nettles from nearby bushes. Gawain found his gaze wandering to the small frown forming on her brow and the gentle pout of her lips as she concentrated on pulping the juice from the green leaves. A pang of guilt swept through him again as he imagined that same expression on her face, laced with anxiety, as she pondered her fate. He knew one thing for certain, he could not take her back to the Wall with him. It was no place for a woman of any standing. The men were battle weary, hardened and crude. A young, attractive lady in their midst would be bid on like an auction and passed to whoever had killed the most men. Gawain knew he could not have her for himself. His life was devoted to Arthur and the Roman cause. There was no room for a wife until his service was over and each day brought the possibility of death closer to him. The whiz of an arrow past his ear, the last minute duck from a Woad-wielded axe reminded him of how close he came to lying with the worms. Aedre had been chattel to a man's whims and wishes for too long. She deserved a life of her own choosing. If he could give her nothing else, he would ensure her freedom of choice beyond her expectations.

The blonde knight was relieved of his thoughts as Tristan moved close to the heat of the fire and settled a metal bar firmly into the heart of the blaze. Gawain shifted uncertainly, knowing what would follow. Tristan's dark eyes caught his for a mere second before returning to his salve.

Arthur ceased his rubbing of Lancelot's limbs when Tristan returned from the campfire. The scout knelt on the other side of their fallen comrade and ran one hand over the his skin. "We should move him closer to the fire and sleep close by him. No matter what, we must keep him warm."

"Is that all?" Arthur asked, incredulous. Of all Lancelot's suffering, surely his temperature was fairly low on the list.

"No," Tristan interjected, curtly. "These blades have to come out before they tear any further." Arthur nodded mutely and the pair looked down at the serene blankness of Lancelot's face. It was impossible to tell how deeply below the surface he swam and what might happen when they cauterized his wounds. Arthur prayed silently that his friend remained unconscious throughout. By the gods, he had suffered enough in the waking world until now.

Arthur lifted one of Lancelot's bandaged hands in his own, unconsciously brushing his thumb lightly across the skin. If Tristan noted this display of affection, he did not show it as he daubed the first of the pungent salve on a cut on Lancelot's sternum. At first he couldn't be sure, but he thought he felt a shiver run through the knight's body as he applied more salve to other sores. Tristan disregarded it at first but the second tremor raised Arthur's attention as well. "Tristan?" he queried. "Is he waking up?"

"Lancelot," Tristan said, both men staring down at the knight for even the smallest sign of return to the land of the living. "We must remove these knives now," Tristan uttered with certainty. "It will be the worse if he wakes."

Gawain brought some hot water as Tristan had instructed and placed it on the ground beside Lancelot. He caught the brief exchange between his comrades and knelt down. "Is he waking?"

"Not yet. Gawain, hold him down. I will fetch the iron." The scout looked to Arthur. "Use this cloth dipped in the warm water to wash the wound as soon as I remove each knife, then I will cauterize it." Arthur swallowed hard. He had seen this done on a number of occasions before, almost every one of his knights had undergone the treatment to deal quickly and efficiently with significant injuries. Every one of them had bellowed with pain as the red hot metal had sizzled against their skin, yet somehow it seemed worse that Lancelot was unconscious for it. It were as if there was no fight left in him even as they inflicted further suffering on him. Should he wake, would he even know them for his friends or would he still believe himself to be stuck in the nightmare that had been the last days?

Arthur pressed his palm to Lancelot's forehead, unfazed by the company watching him. "Rest easy, friend." Gawain moved to take Tristan's place at the wounded knight's other side, prepared to pin him down should he awaken. The scout returned with the hot iron and looked to Arthur. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Arthur replied through the constriction in his throat. Steadying his hand that clutched the dampened rag, he held it beneath the hilt of the first knife in Lancelot's shoulder as Tristan grasped the blade with firm hands. The scout wiggled it gently, ensuring it was not caught on bone then slid it slowly from the knight's flesh while Arthur dabbed at the blood flowing freely from the wound. As soon as the knife was free, the Roman pressed the material firmly against the wound, feeling the warmth of Lancelot's lifeblood soaking through with worrying speed. A second later, Tristan tugged his hand away and chose the positioning of the metal rod with clinical detachment. Clenching his jaw, the scout pressed it against Lancelot's shoulder, grunting as the hiss and smell of melting flesh assailed his nostrils.

Gawain looked to the injured knight's face, wondering if the trauma would be enough to bring him around. To his horror, Lancelot's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly beneath the incredible pain. "Arthur, I think he is waking!"

Arthur looked up. "Lancelot?" he called gently.

Tristan gripped the metal rod tighter. "We must be quick if we are to finish before he wakes."

Arthur shook his head, pushing his friend's hand away from Lancelot's body. "No, we must stop!"

"Arthur, it will be much worse if Lancelot is awake for this. We should show him whatever mercy we can," Tristan reasoned.

"No," Arthur blurted out. "If he wakes to this, he will not know it to be us. If he thinks he is still in that hell, it might break the last of his strength. I want him to know that he is safe, that we will take care of him." He saw the scepticism reflected in Tristan's dark eyes. "Tristan, please. Just a moment is all I ask."

The scout hesitated momentarily before the orange glow of the metal in his hand was lowered and he nodded. "Just a moment," he said, firmly, before returning the glowing metal to the fire.

Gawain released his hold on Lancelot's limbs and moved back, allowing Arthur a moment of privacy with his friend. The Roman squeezed the knight's hand in his own as he knelt beside him once more. "Lancelot? Lancelot, can you hear me?"

The dark eyelashes flickered momentarily before stilling and the crease of his forehead deepened as he struggled to find consciousness. Arthur placed a palm to his cheek, willing him to feel the physical contact between them. Lancelot's breathing grew stronger but more laboured as if he struggled to draw breath. "Lancelot?" Arthur urged, anxiously. "It is me, Arthur." Lancelot's eyes moved under his lids, the eyelids fluttering for a second before cracking open just a fraction. The eyes were not the same as those in Arthur's memory. These were filled with despair where before they had been dancing with life and fire. Lancelot stared ahead, unseeing, up at the cloudy sky above his head. "Lancelot, it is Arthur. You are safe." Still, the knight stared vacantly as if completely unaware of the Roman's presence, who was growing more concerned each second. He reached out to the young Sarmatian, lightly turning his face towards him. The brown eyes registered nothing at first, then Lancelot blinked slowly and when his eyes opened once more, they were lucid and they latched onto Arthur's relieved features.

"Lancelot, can you hear me?" Arthur inquired as Lancelot's eyes roamed the Roman's face with no apparent recognition at all. His mouth worked to form words but nothing more than a whisper escaped his lips. Arthur bent close to make out what he was saying. Lancelot tried harder, his eyes closing with the effort of forming speech. "You…"

Arthur realised how much the task was draining the knight and he gently smoothed the dark locks away from Lancelot's forehead. "It will be all right. We will make you better. Just rest."

Lancelot's eyes locked onto Arthur once more and the Roman almost flinched at the suffering he saw reflected there. "Rest," he soothed, already seeing Tristan's shadow approaching from the corner of his eye. Mercifully, Lancelot's eyes closed and his head fell limply towards Arthur.

"Are you ready to continue?" Tristan asked.

"Let's finish this," Arthur stated, bluntly. He wrung out the bloody cloth in the warm water and moved into position beside Tristan and the blade embedded firmly in his left side. Gawain joined them and watched in disgust as the scout once again jiggled the blade gently to check its position before sliding it out with careful deliberation. Arthur caught the torrent of blood and pressed his cloth into the raw wound until Tristan returned with the burning metal rod. He shifted as far out of the way as he could when the metal melded with Lancelot's torn flesh.

This time, Lancelot's eyes shot open with a harsh gasp, his head lifting to find the source of this sudden pain. Gawain pressed his hand to his forehead, forcing him back to the ground. "Relax, Lancelot. We have to cauterize the wound." The knight's chest heaved with the struggle to escape this new torment but his movements were futile. "Arthur?" Gawain urged, not knowing what to say to calm their patient.

Arthur wrung out the cloth a second time and handed it to Gawain, the two men swapping places. "Lancelot, I am here. Everything will be all right, but you must be still."

Lancelot's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he continued to struggle against the strong arms pinning him to the ground. He felt the pressure of a hand on his chest and lifted a hand to push it off. The exertion almost robbed him of his consciousness once more but he could not endure a second more of this torture. He had to get free. A moan escaped his lips. His trembling fingers clutched at the muscled forearm pressed against his chest, feebly trying to push it aside, but his hand was caught up and forced to his side. Panic spread through him. Lancelot was lost in a world of hurt, so sure he had escaped the pain forever, so why was it here again? He fought with what little reserve of strength he still possessed but his body could not keep up with his exertions and splodges of black danced in front of his eyes. The voice in his ear sounded distant and muffled. He tried to draw in a breath but the pressure on his chest did not ease and Lancelot did not have the strength to push it off. His brain swam with lack of oxygen and he felt a sharp tug and the cold burn in the flesh of his abdomen. The darkness enfolded him in its arms, with the smell of his own burning flesh in his nostrils.

END OF PART 19

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